Our Lady of Satellites
by apathyburger
Summary: (more than a one shot) BobbyJohn slash- drug use, abuse, mild language; comic book, music and Violent Femmes references
1. Default Chapter

Looking upwards I strain my eyes and try/to see the difference between shooting stars and satellites/ ~ 'Passenger Seat'  
Death Cab for Cutie  
  
Bobby watched John play with his lighter. He was getting better at manipulating the flame into balls of fire, or maybe Jean had just stopped complaining about the burn marks in his sheets. In the dark room, Bobby couldn't help watching the fireball; fascinated- it was like a comet, or an asteroid entering the atmosphere. The light reflected off the glitter of the glow-in-the-dark stars Marie had stuck on the ceiling. Some nights Bobby woke up, drenched in sweat, icicles on the wall (hearing John shiver in his sleep) convinced the room was a celestial vacuum; a wormhole and he would be sucked into some other galaxy if he opened his eyes. But maybe that wouldn't be so bad- maybe he'd land in some alternate form of this life and he wouldn't be a mutant and could be as normal as his parents thought he was; but then if that was feasible there was also the possibility he'd land in some other universe Thunder Dome, complete with Mel Gibson in assless chaps. Bobby shivered.  
  
"Thought Icemen don't get cold."  
  
"Thought Pyros don't burn themselves."  
  
"It's a common misconception." They lay in the darkness silently, John flicking open his lighter, then closing it. Bobby snapped, even though he knew, knew that was what John wanted him to do.  
  
"That makes it hard to sleep."  
  
"After all the ice cream you ate, I'm surprised you can lie there. Any one else, they'd be running around the Mansion still."  
  
"That's my real mutation- steel stomach. The ice thing is just a cover up." John muttered something then, but Bobby didn't bother asking him to repeat it. John got pissed off if Bobby told him how much he mumbled, and Bobby really didn't feel like the silent treatment for the rest of the weekend. Especially not when he needed to borrow John's notes- it wasn't his fault English was first thing in the morning. He was a growing boy and needed his sleep. Marie already read 'The Catcher in the Rye' and hadn't bothered to take notes, and that pretty much left John, since Remy and Pieter chose to take notes in French and Russian respectively; and Kitty and Jubilee only toke notes in the margins of the letters they passed back in forth and would never let him borrow their notebooks.  
  
"You can't sleep either?"  
  
"No. And don't say anything about the Zebra Cakes, ok?"  
  
"I was actually going to blame the box of Zingers but..." Bobby sat up and leaned against the wall. He could see the light of John's eyes in the dark- like one of those nature shows about hyenas or African lions. "So are we supposed to have a heart to heart now?"  
  
"Depends. Is there a pregnancy or a clown fetish you need to tell me about?" Now John shivered.  
  
"I hate clowns."  
  
"Did someone have a bad experience with Doodles?"  
  
"Fifth birthday. My oldies thought it'd be funny- until my dad and the clown got into a fight. Once you see Binky take out your birthday cake and give your dad a bloody nose...." Bobby didn't say anything and John paused. He sat up, pushing off his covers and went over to the desk and fiddled with the keyboard, then went and sat on Bobby's bed. In the dark, his skin looked blurry-picture-of-UFO white. He slid so his back was pressed against the wall. Bobby felt small little icicles hanging from the inside of his stomach and down into his intestines. Those were only really 25 feet max, and they didn't feel anything actually, not like skin, that was feeling a little pink- the kind of pink you get early in the morning when the moon starts to go down; if you could feel colors that is; but how Bobby could feel icicles was something he didn't really want to ponder.  
  
"You ever smoke before?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You ever smoke before?"  
  
"You've been keeping cigarettes in the key board? What do you do with your time?"  
  
"It's why you can't type with the number panel. And not durries..."  
  
Bobby thought for a moment. John wouldn't- but then again it was John, so he probably would. "Joints? Shit John-"  
  
"One, keep your voice down. Two, it's a weekend so if we don't leave the room, no one will notice and we've got your supply of deserts so we're ok on food. Three, I only have one- I smoked the other two months ago when you went home for Christmas. We'll go to sleep with the windows open. You won't mind, and I'll grab an extra blanket or something. Maybe I'll light the room on fire."  
  
Bobby chose to ignore the part about setting the room on fire. Maybe that would melt his insides. "No one noticed when you had it over Christmas?"  
  
"It was me, the Professor, Jean and Scott. Everyone else went home- even Logan and Remy disappeared. We just kept to separate wings."  
  
"Oh." Bobby hates it when John says things like this, or when he walks right into a sentence. John doesn't want pity, Bobby knows this but he can't help still feeling stupid. It wasn't his fault that he had parents who were together, or that John never called back to Australia. Maybe that was the root of the weirdness of talking of families- the fact the John didn't care he didn't have any place to go, that he was happy not talking to his father.  
  
John flicks open his lighter and lights the joint. Bobby is still off set every time John actually uses the lighter, he generally just makes shape out of the flame.  
  
He hands it to Bobby who breathes in the sticky smell. Screw it. He sucks in a little. "Hold it for a second. Then breathe out slowly." For a moment, Bobby doesn't feel anything but then his head goes a little light. John pulls the blunt from his hand and takes a hit.  
  
"So how do I know when I'm high?"  
  
"You don't know, you just, you kinda look back and think, 'crap I was high'. There aren't telltale signs or something. Not in the dark. Not when you're high."  
  
"Oh. Did you do this a lot, in Australia? Get high?" Bobby felt John's shoulder shrug against his, musing up the shirt sleeve so John's skin was against Bobby's skin .  
  
"Once or twice I would go out to the rugby pitch and lie on the field, watch the stars. Mainly hit the piss- my dad never really noticed what he drank and what I did. You ever get drunk?"  
  
"Once. With a friend of mine, before I came here- his brother was an alcoholic. He slept over one night and my parents were at a party, my brother at a friend's house. He brought over some wine."  
  
"Why Bobby Drake," John took another gulp, "I do believe you are quite the rebel. Dunn tell me wagged school before too or my image of you will be completely blown." Bobby shoved him and John handed him the weed. Bobby took another breath in.  
  
"I used to throw rocks at windows, one summer, the one before I ran. Middle of the night kind of thing, little pebbles so people woke up, like a dog barking kind of annoyance. I don't know why. One night I threw one too hard and cracked somebody's window. I don't know how but my dad figured out it was me. He was a big guy- built like a brick shit house, you know? Gave me the worst beating of my life- cracked a few ribs and broke a couple of the fingers in my right hand- said, 'how are you going to throw rocks now, huh?' "He wouldn't take me to the doctor, so I ended up taking a train to Melbourne to find a clinic where nobody would know who I was. The doctor had to re-break the fingers so he could set them. Most painful experience of my life. But I could never fight my dad- he was the only thing I had left, only relo, relative you know?, that more or less cared. I thought about burning him up so many times, just torching the house but..."  
  
Bobby wants to say he's sorry, and another part of him wants to kiss John's cheek, kiss the stubble and the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks appeal that John knows he has and milks for all it's worth, that smirk he wears because it makes him feel safer. Bobby can't say he's sorry though, because he's afraid if he does John will throw the joint out the window, or burn the thing up and then the school will catch fire and John will run again. He's afraid if he says he's sorry, John will crawl off his bed and not talk to him for the rest of the weekend, not for a long time and the icicles will only get worse. He's afraid if he says anything like that, he'll end up kissing John and then... Then it might be a good thing if the room turns into a wormhole.  
  
"Would you have run if you didn't light your school on fire?"  
  
"It wasn't the school- I lit the grandstand on fire. But yeah. Probably. I don't know how much longer I could have taken living with my old man. Maybe he would have killed me one day." John punctuated himself by taking another hit. He held his breath for a moment, turning the joint between his fingers like a short white drumstick. Letting out he passed it to Bobby.  
  
"In the seventh grade I liked Lindsey Megan. I used to go over her house every day after school and play 'Oregon Trail' and 'The Sims'. Then one day I realized I wasn't going over the house to see Lindsey, I was doing it cause I had a crush on her brother- Michael. He was 17 and liked all these cool bands; when Lindsey had to go help her mom he'd have me come into his room and listen to music." Bobby took his own deep breath now and prayed to God John wouldn't laugh at him or call him a fag or... Course Bobby didn't think he was a fag but the way he had a habit of staring at John's hands in class might imply the latter. John didn't get off the bed though.  
  
"When I was younger, there was this guy on my block who everyone knew that if you were a guy and you let him grab you through your pillow case on Halloween, he's give you a few bucks. Once anyone turned 11, or looked about it, they would start going to his house. That's when your mom stops taking you around anyway. The first time I went, I went alone; my mates dared me to really. Standing on that step... I think about that a lot. The Halloween after my mom left I went around to the back of the guy's house, knocked. When he opened the door, I just stood there, no bag, nothing, daring him to feel me up and pay me. And he just kept staring back and I started to bloody cry. Cry. He just pulled me inside and I sat on his tile floor and cried and when I was done he paid me 50 quid. Maybe he knew about my mom or my dad or something." Bobby does what feels right and puts his arm around John's shoulders- he could blame the weed or sleepiness or anything but John doesn't protest or say anything. Bobby passes the weed back. He's pretty sure where his finger tips touch John's skin there's frost melting.  
  
"My family used to have this old couch up in our attic-it was my mom's great aunt's and she felt bad about getting rid of it so she never did. I used to go up there and climb into the couch, cause one of the pillows was missing all the stuffing. When I was younger, that's what I wanted to be- some decrepit couch in an attic cause I thought, I don't know. I guess I thought it was safe or something, to know my mom would never get rid of me. Or I wanted to be the fire guy from Captain Planet, cause everyone else was all goody-two shoes and knew right from wrong whereas he at least looked like he was having fun, like he was somewhat real. Or I wanted to be Johnny Quest but..." Bobby shrugs. It looks like John is trying to blow a smoke ring.  
  
"Sounds like an identity crisis."  
  
"Like you never did anything like that, Caulfield." John doesn't protest and Bobby realizes that is who he reminds him of- Holden. Him or a character in a Bret Easton Ellis book.  
  
"When... My mom left when I was twelve. Right in the middle of January. I came home from school... Two weeks after she didn't leave a note, it was kinda apparent she wasn't coming back so my dad spent the weekend getting the wobbly boot on. Sunday night, he woke me up and threw my mom's makeup bag at me. He dragged me into the bathroom and had me put it all on. Said I deserved it, I looked like her. He didn't smell drunk. I put it all on- the lippie, blush, foundation, eyeliner and shadow, like I used to watch her do, when I was little and would sit on the bathroom rug before the sitter came. When I was done he left. I didn't bother to take it off and I fell asleep listening to him cry.  
"He kissed me once. Told me to stand up and face him and then he kissed me. Said I tasted like her. I ran that night and didn't go home for a week. I never washed the make up off but it rained that night and most of it stained my shirt." Bobby really doesn't know what to say now, just that John is starting to shake and Bobby doesn't think that's weed.  
  
He doesn't think, he does. He kisses John's cheek. He takes the blunt and ices the ember and they're sitting in the dark, with Bobby's arm touching John's neck and collar bone and his hand touching John's arm still and Bobby isn't sure of what to do with that arm or with the joint or what John is doing with his hands or what John is going to do now. So Bobby does what he's always been good at, what he does when he gets nervous. He talked.  
  
"When I was five my parents had a party and half way through, when I was supposed to be asleep, I remember coming down stairs to the kitchen and sitting in the cupboard with all the pots and pans and watching through the dining room the adults in the living room until I realized my aunt was sitting on the counter crying. So I sat there with all the pots around me and tried not to move so I wouldn't make a sound until she went into the bathroom. Then I ran back into my room and hid under the covers. I was afraid to hear anyone cry like that. I was afraid the world was ending or I was going to be sunk in the earth, like a sand pit or something, that her tears were going to flood us out and I didn't have Noah or an ark or anything."  
  
"Bobby Drake....you... bastard. You... beaut." Bobby is sitting and staring where he thinks John's head is because it's rude not to look at people when you talk to them, even if you are slightly worried that you're in love with this person and that this person might one day set everything on fire and then watch it all burn. John's hand scratched against Bobby's cheek, tracing with the edges of his nails and then John's lips were on Bobby's. Bobby kissed back.  
  
When they were both lying down on his bed, kissing, he began to laugh. "What?" Bobby shook his head and giggled a little more. "Bobby, you're high."  
  
"No, I'm not, I'm... I don't know what I am." Now John was laughing a little. Bobby kissed him again, and bit slightly on John's bottom lip, resting his weight on John's chest.  
  
He distangled his mouth for a moment to say, "If you were to breathe for us, we'd die." Then he kissed John again, and to prove his point, pressed his breath into John's mouth. John breathed back then pulled away.  
  
"Just...cark it and go to sleep." Bobby wrapped his arms around John and kissed his mouth again, feeling John's hands rub against his sides. Turning his head so their lips just barely touched and his cheek rested on top of John's, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. 


	2. Chapter Two

Satellite- (n) A subservient follower; a sycophant  
  
John was breathing in Bobby's shampoo smell. It was clean. God, what when Bobby woke up? What if Bobby had just been high? He rubbed the metal tear drop of his necklace with one hand, daring to leave his other on the seashell of Bobby's shirt covered shoulder blade. He was such a bloody galah. Honestly, thinking Bobby would ever- "Morning." John choked on his own tongue as Bobby kissed his cheek and sat up, stretched. Not sure what else to do, John followed, crossing his legs Indian-style to face Bobby's side, feeling the muscles in his back tighten and loosen.  
  
"Um, Bobby? You... it wasn't just the mull?"  
  
"The what?"  
  
"The weed, you bloody Seppo."  
  
"Bloody what?"  
  
"American! You and me... pashing on- kissing- that wasn't... that was more than mates?"  
  
"No. I mean, it was fine. I...." John grabbed Bobby's chin and turning it, he kissed him. Right then, so it wasn't a bad thing if he were to do this. When they broke apart, Bobby kissed John's ear, pursing his lips as if he were about to whisper.  
  
"You kiss as if you were about to tell a secret."  
  
"What?" Maybe it was a bad thing to confuse Bobby so much in the morning.  
  
"Your lips. You make them as if you were about to tell me a secret."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"So tell me another one."  
  
"Another secret? Um...." Bobby bit his bottom lip and John, biting his tongue moved his hand to rest on top of Bobby's. Bobby twisted his fingers to entangle. Maybe this was all a substitute for Marie but there was no way John was going to ask that. "Um, I'm bi?" John wants to say he'd root anything that moved, just to see Bobby's mouth make that perfect little circle again but Bobby is only 15 and impressionable, whereas John is 16, so maybe it'd also be wrong to say that he thinks he's gay. Is Bobby waiting for a secret now? John solves his dilemma by kissing Bobby again. This time Bobby breaks away to ask, "Is this an open thing?"  
  
"What?" John is feeling a bit like déjà vu.  
  
"Openly dating? Cause, I mean, my parents don't know about the whole bi thing. I mean, they don't even know about the whole mutant thing and..."  
  
"We don't have to tell anyone." Something about kissing Bobby was making him revert into Oz slang, which didn't help to make anything more concise. Bobby smiled, that half grin he does sometimes, and kissed him again.  
  
Time went by. Two weeks. Three. John and Bobby would let their hands rub in passing in the corridor, and kiss on the couch when they had the TV to themselves. John couldn't help smiling when he didn't think anyone was looking. Looking back it was strange that his natural pessimism didn't better warn or prepare him for what was coming.  
  
He was leaning against the brick wall to try and catch his breath before walking inside and showering, grabbing a bite to eat. He didn't necessarily like the morning runs but they were demanded and as long as John went once or twice a week, Scott didn't nag so much. Besides, it was better to run in the morning- no one to watch you or anything. He watched as a cheap rent-a- car came through the gates, the company logo spelled out in blue on the hood. A man stepped out from the driver's side and started forward. John couldn't move. He was still built like a shit house and he still looked pissed. London to a brick, John was dead.  
  
The reunion wasn't that bad really. Only a few one-two slaps to the side of the face until Scott came out and started yelling and waving his arms about. John took this moment of distraction, the moment in which his dad was caught off-guard and Scott was still stunned from hearing 'I'm his bloody father and I'll do whatever I want!" to bolt for the woods.  
  
In retrospect, he knew that he couldn't have possibly stayed in the woods forever and that it would be impossible to construct some sort of a George of the Jungle tree house because New York isn't in Africa and his father wouldn't just let be. Besides, he didn't have any secret animal communication skills. Just really good at burning things down. He still ran for a bit, tripping over roots and logs and slipping on oak tree leaves. He also knew (in retrospect) that it would be impossible to run forever because at some point he'd have to piss or sleep or he'd get lost and end up running into an ocean and be convinced it was a lake or something. But a lake doesn't flow into anything, really.  
  
When John stopped running, convinced he was going to trip and be impaled on some trap for mountain lions or outsiders, he slid to the base of a tree trunk, feeling brittle, frosted moss break and chip off. The pieces were probably sticking to his shirt but right now, he really wanted a cigarette. Bobby fell next to him a few minutes later, their shoulders touching as they filled a corner of the tree. Perpendicular, in two directions. When he gasped out, there was a small cloud of frost. It dissipated. "Where. Are you. Going to go?" he managed to get out. John shrugged. If Bobby did all the talking right now, that was fine with him. "You can't go back with him."  
  
"Do I have a choice?"  
  
"Yeah! Stay here with me, in the woods. We'll run away or something but John you can't back to him. Remember what you said how-"  
  
"I remember what I said, Bobby. It happened!" John blew out, half expecting smoke, really wanting to try a blow a ring. His fingers were in his pocket, working the lighter case between pads and swirls, calluses and whorls. "I don't know. Either way you look at, I'm screwed. I stay out here, they'll come get us. I go back, he'll get me and Bobby..."  
  
"We could run."  
  
"We can't. Bobby I'm..." John paused and tried not to look at Bobby. "Let's.... we should just go back. I should." Bobby kissed his cheek and John stood, taking care not to turn his head towards Bobby. They walked back. Logan met them.  
  
"Listen kid, you..."  
  
"I know." Logan didn't say anything else but turned and walked back with them. No one was touching and John kept his eyes on his feet. He didn't bother to head for the front of the school but walked inside the kitchen door and up the back stairs to the hallway where his room was. He went into the closet and pulled out an old knapsack he bought from an op shop and started to pile in clothing, rolling them so more could fit.  
  
Bobby watched him, sitting cross legged on his bed and John knew that everyone else was standing in the doorway. With out looking up, he asked, "Remy, can I bum a cigarette?"  
  
"I don't-"John looked up at him. Marie was crying and John didn't know why. He never really thought she liked him all the much, didn't think anyone did really. Remy reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn pack, tossing it onto John's bed. "Take the pack chere." John lit one.  
  
The flame in his lighter shook.  
  
He stacked comic books, the few books and DVDS he had come across in his little under two years at the school and let them dent his covers in. It didn't take him long to pack his clothing- it was only two pairs of pants and a few T-Shirts, some boxers and socks. His sweatpants and a pair of shorts were in the laundry and what was the point in bringing those wherever he was going, wet? He took up the pile of personals and turned, handing them off to Bobby with out taking too many steps, still aware that everyone was watching. "Here. These are yours."  
  
"No they're-"  
  
"They're yours Bobby." John tired to open his eyes wide enough that Bobby would get the hint. He would've liked if Bobby could have come closer and stared deep enough that he'd fall in, so maybe John could bring him back to Australia with him. Bobby didn't move closer, and John had to step forward to push the stack into his hands. He turned back awkwardly and made sure he had put all his clothing and small things into his bag. His watercolor pencils and sketchpad were pressed between pairs of jeans. Hopefully his father wouldn't find them there, wouldn't look.  
  
John wasn't sure what exactly to do now, so he stood and continued to poke his fingers into his bag, waiting; he dragged again and tapped the ash off the cigarette and onto the floor. He killed the flame and flicked the cigarette into the trashcan when he heard footsteps. You needed to be in the mood to have a lecture on the evils of smoking beamed into your head and John definitely wasn't in it.  
  
"You ready?" John looked up and nodded. His father was standing in the room now, watching him but not really looking. John knew he was looked at the paneling or the crown molding on the windows; he was running a tally in his head of how much the panes of glass cost, the computer on the mahogany desk. "Well, let's go." His father turned and John swung his bag onto his shoulder. His father stopped and turned his head to Scott. "Thank you again, Mr. Summers, for finding me my son."  
  
John knew his eyes were probably big right now and his mouth falling open but he still jerked his head to Scott. He had told his father where he was? He had- why? How? His father was walking out the door, Scott, Professor, Marie they were all following. Like he was Noah or Moses or maybe just a drunk. "Wait." said Bobby quickly, quietly, and harsh. John turned, knocking his hand into the door so it swung shut for a moment. Bobby iced the bottom to the ground.  
  
Bobby pulled his shirt in and kissed him, gasping into him. John dragged his fingers along Bobby's cheekbone. "Stay. Please?" John shook his head. He didn't want to meet Bobby's eyes but he did. He kissed his cheek again, starting at Bobby's ear and tracing but never picking his mouth off Bobby's skin; his lips ended up pressing against the space between Bobby's eyes, a hand pushing against Bobby's left cheek, his right hand holding onto Bobby's shirt pocket. Bobby was pressing cold, frosty fingers into John's jugular and dotting the corner of John's collarbone with his mouth and for a moment, John wished Bobby to freeze his blood, to freeze him into a statue, or sculpture that would melt and be nothing.  
  
"Here." Bobby turned away and went to his comics. He pulled out one and held it to John.  
  
"I can't take that." Bobby pushed it against his chest. "That's a signed Sandman. I can't take that." Bobby took John's hand and put the comic it, then pressed his fingers onto it, raising the hand and kissing each knuckle. John kissed Bobby again, quickly and turned away. Don't look back, he thought. Don't do it. He walked out of the room and down the hall and didn't wait. He concentrated on the floor. Then he was staring at grass stems and then gravel and then the inside of the trunk as he put his bags inside. John slipped the comic into his messenger bag, sliding it into a binder.  
  
Reaching into his pocket he pulled and lit another cigarette and watched his father shake hands with Scott, Jean, Logan, Ororo and the Professor. He didn't lean against the car. Marie hugged him and he gently patted her back. Pieter wished him luck and Remy nodded. John didn't say anything. He looked up to see Bobby jogging awkwardly, running over, comics clutched in his hands. "These. Are. Yours. Damn it." John took them, balancing the cigarette between his teeth. They were a mix of Wooden Soldiers and Yoricks and Ultimates, tied together with a plague that killed all the men.  
  
He got into the car before he'd have to shake anyone's hands. As they drove away, John watched the side view mirror, tapping the cigarette against the outside of the door, Bobby's comics sitting on his lap and shuffled into one pile without distinction to ownership or series. Bobby raised his hand, his fingers wilted slightly, goodbye.  
  
*** Author's Note: I admit that I stole the quote 'A lake doesn't flow into anything, really' from Kafka. Only because I couldn't think of how to work in his quote about crows.  
  
Vocab: London to a brick: expressing certainty Op shop: second hand/ resale shop Galah: fool (after the bird of the same name which flies south in the winter - a silly thing to do in the Southern Hemisphere 


	3. Chapter Three

Bobby skipped classes. Maybe this was making everyone think that he and John were more than just friends. Fuck them.  
  
"So, were are you from?" The boy shrugged. Bobby dug his fingers into the creases of his jeans. "I'm Bobby." Bobby wished he could take that back- they'd been introduced already. Now he just looked stupid and the last thing he needed right now was a roommate who thought he was an idiot.  
  
"John." Bobby nodded. It wasn't like the guy was holding his end of the conversation or anything, or like he could say 'that's a nice name. Are you named after your father?' Not if he didn't want his ass kicked. And he couldn't exactly ask him if he liked comic books or cartoons because, well, Bobby still didn't want his ass kicked. John lay down on his bed and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it and started to play with his lighter snapping the flame on and off. Bobby wished he could do something cool with his mutation. All he could manage right now were little lumps of ice, not exactly something to be feared if he were to be assaulted in a dark alley somewhere. Not that he really hung out in dark alleys or anything. He didn't actually knew if he could think of any dark alleyways but it was an alliteration or a hyperbole damn it. "How old are you?" John had an accent- maybe English? Australian? Bobby didn't know many people outside of Massachusetts except his cousins from Santa Cruz but they didn't really have accents.  
  
"13." John looked over and nodded, then flicked some of the ash on to the hardwood floor. He didn't say old he was. "How about you?"  
  
"Older."  
  
"You Australian?"  
  
"Yeah. Where are you from?"  
  
"Outside of Boston. Is it nice there?"  
  
"In Australia?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"S'right. How's Boston?"  
  
"Nice. Cold winters." John nodded and finished off the cigarette. He sat up and looked around for a place to stub it out and throw it. Getting up, he walked off to the trashcan and, after first putting out the cigarette on the desk, he tossed it in. "So.... What kind of music do you like?" John shrugged and walked back to his bed, sliding back so he was leaning against the wall and facing Bobby. He fiddled with the straps of his messenger bag and Bobby realized suddenly that that was all John had with him. He felt guilty and tried not to look at his two suitcases and carryon bag.  
  
"The kind played with instruments." Bobby didn't say anything. "Violent Femmes. NY Dolls. Death Cab for Cutie. Radiohead." John paused and it looked as though he didn't want to ask but ingrown manners demanded. "You?"  
  
"Death Cab is good. Same with Radiohead. Um, Weakerthans?" John nodded. "Ramones. Ted Leo and the Pharmacists. Guster." John shrugged again and Bobby debated whether he should unpack or not. John reached into his bag and pulled out a comic- the first Sandman.  
  
"You like Neil Gaiman?" John looked up and closed the comic.  
  
"S'right. Why? You big in comics?"  
  
"Yeah. Do you only read the Sandman?"  
  
"No. Hellboy. Mord the Dead Teenager. Johnny the Homicidal Maniac. The Punisher."  
  
"You ever read Y: The Last Man?" John shook his head and Bobby, finally finding something to do with his hands, got up and rifled through a duffle bag. He pulled out a sheaf of comics. Selecting a few, he went over and handed them to John, who put down the Sandman. "It's really good. Never read Mord though- only heard of it. Its out of print, right?"  
  
"Yeah." John went into his bag now and pulled out a few comics of his own, passed them to Bobby. Bobby took them and went back to his own bed. Taking his cue from John, he began to read.  
  
Bobby got up and went over to the bookcase, ignoring the spaces between parts of a series. He pulled out the stack of comics John had pushed upon him and took out the first copy of Mord. Sliding it under his pillow, he pulled the covers over his head. He brought his hand to his mouth and pursed his lips against thin skin.  
  
A/N: I would like to note that not all of these comics mentioned have been around the appropriate length of time to be known by the characters of this story- especially 'Y: The Last Man' (the Yorick reference), and 'Fables' (the Wooden Soldiers reference). Regardless, I urge you to check them out- they're well worth seeking and reading, especially 'Y: the Last Man' as it will supposedly become a movie soon and you can be properly mortified if they botch it. Mainly I'm just angry about the possibility that the 'Mord' movie will star/involve Jessica Simpson. Anyone who describes a script as cute must be kicked out of the pop culture limelight. 


	4. Chapter Four

John woke up when he heard his window creak. He sat up in bed, his jeans creasing into his thighs and watched as Rachel climbed into his room, her blond hair falling down and forming a curtain as she bent her head and pulled one leg free. She walked inside and didn't shut the window. Stepping quickly she came to the bed, slapped him (if it were any other girl John would have hated to admit it hurt but this was Rachel, who had slapped him enough times to know the amount of force to use so it stung and the way to cup her hand so it made the whipped sound) and sat down, crossing her arms and facing the window. "Ellis saw your dad pull up. Why the hell didn't you call us?"

John shrugged. "How've you been?"

"Strewth, I'm seriously fucking pissed off at you Saint John. Evan. Allerdyce. And don't give me that crap about how much you hate your name cause I don't want to hear it right now. I was convinced for a year that your dad chopped you up into tiny pieces and buried them in your yard. You could have wrote, you could have called, you could have sent pigeons or smoke signals or developed telepathy and you did none of them. Your mom took off- you know what its like to have someone take off and not tell you and you can't call us! What the fuck is wrong with you?" She turned and faced him. John leaned against his wall. The breeze from outside was drifting in. It smelled salty, though the ocean sand was a mile and a half to the east away, on the rich side of town, near the stores and downtown.

"I'm sorry. I just, I thought maybe they were checking your guys' email or something. Dead set." She still stared at him. He sighed and leaned forward, kissed her cheek, a peace offering. "Your parents will kill you if they know you're out."

"So I won't tell them." Rachel sounded sullen but he knew by the slight blush in her cheeks that she was at least willing to discuss putting a 'no more slapping for the night' rule into effect.

"Right." John contemplated running his fingers through her hair and leaving them to rest on her shoulder. She'd probably try to bite him because she definitely wasn't blushing that much. For some reason that made him think of Bobby and John felt the corner of his lips spasm slightly. "How've you been?"

She shrugged. "Ellis is still a dag and popular, Marc is still filming everyone and hanging out with those annoying tech kids."

"What about you?"

"I dunno. Met a couple decent politic-minded blokes. You might like 'm. Where've you been?"

"Around. Went to America. Antarctica. Didn't think he'd find me there." Rachel hugged him. She climbed under his sheets and her hair spilled onto his pillow.

"I'm glad you're back, no matter how selfish that makes me." John slid down and wrapped an arm around her. He kissed her cheek again and tried to pretend she was Bobby. It hurt, so he told himself it was Rachel and tried to sleep, mimicking her breathing.

It didn't work.

He imagined drawing Bobby a comic book, having it open with this panel- his ex girlfriend lying asleep and him awake. Hey Bobby, did I ever tell you about the people I left behind? They weren't all shits like my father- I had some friends. Yeah laugh Bobby go ahead. I do have some social skills. Here would be a panel, a photograph.

That's Rachel. We dated for a while but I dunno. I guess we were better off friends or being platonic or something. She's a vejjo and dyes her hair red sometimes (even though she always spells 'dyes' wrong) because she likes 'Run Lola Run'. A slide show of Rachel substituted for Franke whatshername. There's Marc who I met in second grade because he ate one of my crayons- red violet, not violet red for whatever difference that made to him, and had to get his stomach pumped. I think for a while I thought about dating him but I didn't. No one, not even him, knows what sex he's really into but he doesn't care. He'll date anyone anyway. A page for Marc now, walking down the halls with his damn video camera, making guys and girls blush, or out with that drag queen he dated for a while, or that beautiful senior girl he dated freshman year with the blonde, blonde hair who liked to wear his boxers rolled up to school, with T-Shirts that slipped around her skin, who broke up with him a few months after they started going out. Maybe I watched them together more times than I needed to or wanted to, and maybe it made me feel like I really knew her sometimes, the way she held onto his touch after he left the room.

And then Ellis. I've lived next door to him since we were five. We trained his dog that he got when he was ten. High school, no, not even high school, junior high came, and suddenly everyone realized how funny he was. I don't do funny. But you know that. We used to fight a lot and then we realized it was pointless because neither of us are moving. He's the only one, other than you, I ever told about my dad slapping me around. A segment for Ellis now, sleeping over and watching John get dragged out of his room. Sitting up in his blankets and sweatpants, hearing John's dad hit him, drunk. I think I punched him first and then told him because he wouldn't back down.

How's that Bobby? It's not Joe or Andy or Adam Kubert, or Mike Dringenberg. It's me. It's what I didn't tell you. It's what I didn't tell anyone.

John tried to breathe in Rachel's scent again, a bit like lemon iced-tea. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. When he awoke the next morning, Rachel's hair was wrapped around his neck. He checked the clock and shook her shoulder. She mumbled something. "Wake up. You have time to run home before your parents realize you're out." Slowly she got up and he lay there watching her put on her shoes. She raised a hand as she swung a leg out his window.

"See you in school?"

"Yeah."

"See you other than that?"

"Yeah." She gave half a smile and went out the rest of the way. John didn't know whether to get up or what. Should he make breakfast? Pretend nothing had ever happened and register himself for school? He lay there, caught between possibilities, wishing he could just fall back asleep.

His father came in for a moment. "Wake up. Made breakfast." John sat up and his father left the room before he could get a good look at him.

It was pancakes. The kind you buy frozen but he had made something and maybe that counted; it had before John went away, before even his mother or Spencer took off, as a peace offering or an end to an argument. He could see the pizza box from last night in the corner, and knew there was a greasy spot on the tile from where the cardboard had touched, maybe making some abstract design. If he were Jack Smith, maybe he'd pry up the tile, spray paint around the grease (like a stencil), and call it 'Wasteland' or something. "So you've got to be registered." John nodded. "Take you after this."

"I could do it. If you don't want to take off from work."

"I called in." His father ate for a few minutes to signify a change in conversation. "Do you need new clothing." It was a statement. A scale.

"I don't know. I'm pretty sure my T-Shirts and stuff will fit."

"I'll take you to get some jeans. After school." John nodded.

"Thank you." His father finished eating and left John with the dishes.

"Today we welcome to the world of literature John Allerdyce. He's-"

"They know who I am." Without being told John took a seat in the back of the class and concentrated on the plastic wood whorls of the desk, trying to ignore eyes. A fist tapped the top of his desk, the knuckles written on in black pen again, and John saw Marc. "Hey." John nodded. "Were."

"What?"

"Were. Who you were." John nodded again and Marc faced forward.

Hamlet sucked. This much John clarified in 45 minutes. All talk, no action, no balls. The announcements came on the loud speaker and Marc turned to John. "Where'd you go?"

"America."

"No shit." Marc smiled. "My guess was you headed back to the Netherlands to look up Spencer." John remembered the nearly-two years in Amsterdam for a moment; his cousin with his wide, gap-front-tooth smile and omniscient video camera who came back with them to Australia, to attend secondary school there. Marc had always begged to stay over his house when Spencer was around, before he took off and didn't come back or call or contact under the pretext of film school in London. John couldn't blame him because, after all, he had done the same thing, two years later. "What'd you do?" John shrugged.

"Nothing really." Nothing he could say here. Or say at all, really. 'I was at a mutant school in New York run by this paraplegic who still sounds English when he's yelling at you in your head because by the way, he's a telepath. There I learned how to manipulate flame and turn my self into a Bunsen Burner. That's where I met this really nice and really hot Bostonian who could turn his body into ice. Plus, I could always count on him to finish off my food, especially any and all desert and help me with my Chemistry homework because we weren't just learning how to fight against anti-mutant terrorist groups and how to save the world, but also to become educated young people ready to face the defiantly non-mutant world with a diploma.' That was probably too much information. "What have you been doing?"

"Filming." John laughed.

"Beyond that."

"Impregnated some animals, eaten some babies, couple grand plots to assassinate world leaders and subsequently take over their countries. Raised a farm of koala babies to sell on the black organ market. Nothing all that important."

"Schemes fail?"

"Yeah. But did they look good on paper."

"That's what counts. Sister still ripping the arms off of Ken dolls?"

"Yeah. Supposed to have some kind of reading in a few weeks. Want to go?" John mimed playing the bongos.

"Sure she could use some hecklers."

"She deserves it."

"Still haven't recovered from the War of '99."

"I still have sand in my boxer drawer. What's your next class?"

"Er, History."

"With Ms. O'Connell?"

"Yeah. Why, you got it?"

"Mm hmm." The bell rung and they walked out, stopping so a copy of "Hamlet" could be pressed into John's hand.

"Hey John!" he heard some say and he turned. A blond girl approached him, in sleeveless hoodie and low cut jeans. He didn't think she was wearing a shirt under the sweatshirt. Whatever bought you friends, he thought and looked down at his own clothes. Jeans and a T-Shirt over another tee, framing the hems of his sleeves with color. "Remember me? Kelly?' John nodded, not because he did remember, and he sort of did but not to the extent where if she mugged him he'd be able to ID her, but because she wasn't the girl you could say no too. "Well, I'm glad you're back. I'll see you around, ok?" She smiled and walked off.

John turned. "Didn't know I was so missed." He let himself smile for a moment. Ignoring the fact he didn't really like girls and was currently still lusting after earlier said Bostonian, it was kind of impressive to have a girl other Rachel acknowledge his presence.

Marc pushed his shoulder. "You probably had shit in your teeth."

Lunch was weird. He could tell that since he'd been gone Rachel, Marc and Ellis hadn't made the biggest effort to sit with one another or exist on each other's plane. He had never thought himself as anyone's tying string, more of a floater who ate lunch sometimes and slept in the library other times, or snuck into the art room. But not a reason for four people to share a Quad table. They hadn't always, someone was usually off with other friends, or brought them to the table but it was the Four of them, really. With a capital 'F'. They were the group and everyone else just bystanders. At least to John.

But they were the only ones at the table, for a little bit anyway. Poking through their lunches, or rather, John watching them poke through their lunches and debating whether it was worth the effort to attempt to remove the soda and sandwich from his op-shop book bag and ingest it, or better to just wait for Rachel to hand over whatever piece of fruit was slipped into her lunch. "So, John have you painted anything recently?" He looked up from his hands and took the orange, shoving his thumbnail in and starting to peel it.

"I don't paint anymore. I stopped when my mom left." They all looked at him. "I don't." They nodded and he went back to worrying off that small strip of skin from his lip with his teeth, separating the fruit from the rind. They knew he didn't paint. He had told them countless times and just because he hadn't been around for a while didn't mean that changed.

"Yeah well, do you have anything?" asked Marc.

"No!"

"Bull shit," muttered Ellis, in a way that any one else would have called it speaking without enunciation but for Ellis is was mumbled enough to be a mutter.

"What the hell do you mean, bull shit? I stopped. No more. That means I haven't painted anything recently. Not yesterday, not after she left."

"No one's buying that. Not even you." Ellis was almost glaring at him and Rachel wasn't really meeting his eyes at all, but then, when he had ever met any of their eyes, truly? Not for a long time.

"Screw you." Kelly came over to their table then, and Marc smiled. She brought some of her friends. And then some of Ellis's mates, a few rugby players, the kind that if you didn't say the joke right, you could kiss your ass good-bye. John ate the orange and then left the table. He had spoken to some of them but it wasn't him they wanted to see. He finished out the period curled up in a library chair, drawing his pencil over the pages of a sketchbook, only letting it touch when he could truly see what he wanted, drinking his soda, leaving the sandwich to stew in the bottom of his bag.


	5. Chapter Five

Bobby braids bracelets, he thinks and smiles. "Bobby braids bracelets. Bobby braids bracelets. Bobby braids b-bracelets. Bobby braids break-lets. Bobby brays break-lets." He makes himself finish, five times as fast as he can.  
  
He needs something to do with his hands so he practices making threads of fine ice, something he can't think about, something that won't let him think about other things. He doesn't mind that they break under his thumb or how long it takes to properly form each strand, so it's rubbery and not just wet.  
  
It's the fact that the window cracked from the cold that gets him. Or rather, the fact that his room is always ten degrees too cold below comfortable for Marie, or Jubilee, or even Logan. And there's no reason to care. No reason to ask his mom to keep doubling the deserts or to hide the Krimpets.  
  
Marie's been asking him why he's been so quiet. She's been giving him those along-the-eye-liner looks, and Remy said that now Kitty thinks he's cute. But Bobby knows she'll never act because everyone's afraid of Marie's spider web ways and maybe Kitty's afraid her skin will melt if she gets too close to him, too. Maybe she thinks he spends too much time with Marie and picked up her coma touch. Or enough time with John to lose whatever virtues he had.  
  
He could move on. He can move on. He should. It's just hard because John replied to his email and Bobby knows he's a pansy because he's afraid to open it. He could shimmy up the drain pipe two seconds behind John and not be afraid Scott will catch them breaking curfew or that Logan will smell the beer. But he's too afraid to open his bank account in case his father asks him why he bought a passport. He can kiss a boy and not care if anyone walks in because that boy was the first he's ever met to tell him that 'Johnny Quest' was cool, and Race the coolest, but the CG episodes were the best, because that boy was leaving and he couldn't do anything. But Bobby can't tell his dad he's a mutant. But he can't tell his dad a lot of things. Can't.  
  
But he can smile, he thinks. Maybe that's in the email- John moving on.  
  
And he has to start doing homework again.  
  
And smiling at Marie because she's a good friend, not that he'd ever date her again.  
  
He has to realize, he thinks. John's hot blood isn't his concern anymore. It couldn't be. It can't.  
  
"Hey. Bobby. Psst. Why do women watch porno films to the end?"  
  
"I dunno. Why Remy, why?"  
  
"They think they'll get married." Bobby smiled. See, it wasn't that hard. Then again, there was also the image of Scott making Remy repeat the joke in front of the class to make him smile harder.  
  
He had read the email. Reread. And then a third time. John had gotten there ok (the exact phrase being 'the plane ride was a little too much time spent in close confines with my father and four different exits from which he could throw me'). His dad hadn't said much to him. He was planning on coming down with an acute case of aphasia (Bobby had to look up that word but had liked what he found: Partial or total loss of the ability to articulate ideas or comprehend language). John hoped he was well. And that was it. Seven friggin lines. But John had arranged them in almost Hemingway formation, each idea garnering a separate paragraph.  
  
Bobby still didn't know what to write back. 'Marie's great I think she wants to date me again.' No, because that would bring up whether John and Bobby were dating, or whether they ever had been. And Bobby knew that it was his fault no one knew about the little 'us' there had been, that was his request but now that John was gone he still had all the feelings and the imagination he had before, but no roommate to at least imagine talking about them with.  
  
'My mom wants to know why she can cut back on the food supply.' Because that sounded like he was moving on and damn it, he didn't know where that would mean he was moving to. Back to girls? Back to what was now his own room? Moving on. But he had to start moving on.  
  
'I'm doing my homework again,' he started writing in his notebook, ignoring the lecture on log and natural log functions. He could probably cop it from Marie later, or Remy if he didn't write it in French again. 'Laugh John. It's ok; I surprised myself with my deviance in your honor. So, meet up with your old friends? Has your father hit you? Maybe, maybe now you're back and he won't. You can pessimistic, I'll be your optimistic side.  
  
'Have you and him talked about anything? And if you get aphasia, can you spread it to me, like an email virus or something? Cause I'm not sure what to say to people anymore, what I'm hiding and what I'm not, and how to act like I've moved on when I don't think I have.  
  
'And speaking of, do you want the Krimpets because I haven't felt much like eating them and I don't know how to explain to my mother that she shouldn't send them anymore so maybe I can care package them to you. I hope you're well.'  
  
The bell rang and Bobby gathered up his things, heading for the bedroom, ignoring the smell of lunch, heading for the Internet. Maybe this was enough to start. Maybe John could tell him what to do or what he was really doing. Maybe Bobby could stop braiding bracelets then and start smiling, start joking, stop looking so surprised when people laugh and talk to him. Moving on, he guessed was all in the first step. 


	6. Chapter Six

"Hello John." John looked up from the sidewalk, about to start turning up the driveway to his house. Mr. McFarland idled his car next to him, ignoring the cars that had to go around him and drive on the wrong side of the street.

"Mr. McFarland."

"Glad to see you back in the neighborhood." John nodded. There wasn't much he could say to that. 'Great to see you too, Mr. McFarland. Hey, remember how the last time I really spoke to you was when you groped me on Halloween when I was 13?' He shoved his hands in his pockets and tongued the back of his chin stud, feeling it push out and stay there as he kept the weight if his tongue behind it.

No. That wouldn't do. Plus it would be a little embarrassing. "Staying?"

"I guess. Don't have much of a choice in the matter." Mr. McFarland smiled. John didn't remember his teeth being so white and he had cut his black hair down, almost like a buzz cut but a little longer.

"No, I guess you don't. Will you be working with your father on weekends now?"

"As a job, you mean? I dunno."

"Well, my brother is looking for help in his shop. If you'd like, I'll put in a good word for you." John nodded and tried to think of what kind of shop it was. It wasn't a sex shop; the nearest one was two towns over. "The surf store on Lilith?" John nodded. That was a manly enough job for his father, he was sure. "I'll see you then."

"Yeah. Thanks." Mr. McFarland rolled up his window and drove down the street, shifting onto the left side of the road, ignoring other car's horns as he switched to the proper lane, into his driveway. For the life of him, John wasn't quite sure how the hell that all had just transpired. Maybe, maybe it kept coming back to the crying on Mr. McFarland's Spanish tile.

"Dad? Dad, I'm going out for a bit. I'll be back by 12." His father grunted, still watching the footy game. John grabbed his jacket and walked outside. Eight o'clock and he's off his face, he thought. Been home what? Three days?

He wasn't even sure why he wasn't going to this party, other than both Marc and Ellis telling him not to be piker and show his ass there. And Kelly had invited him to her party. He knew he wasn't interested in her, not like that but he might as well act like he was interested in girls. It made things easier in the short run.

The walk was pretty nice, cool with the stars starting to come out. He walked up to her stoop and with a 'fuck it' knocked. She answered the door pretty quickly, smiling and inviting him in. "Put your jacket in there." He smiled, put his jacket on the bed and followed her to the kitchen. "There's beer in the cooler and every body's on the deck." She walked out through the screen door and grabbing a wet can, he followed.

"John!" He turned and saw Marc perched on a table, a cat next to him and his camera in his hands. He went over, breaking the tab. "You showed." John moved the cat over so he could sit, letting it purr against his hand and brush up against his thigh.

"Didn't have much of a choice."

"Sure you did. You just didn't want to look too overeager, that's why I had to goad you into it."

"Well, at least you didn't have to resort to black mail."

"Always the positive." John looked around, following Marc's camera's pan. Maybe, 60 people? That wasn't that huge for this big of a yard (Kelly lived on the right sound of town). And for the most part, no one seemed completely sloshed. "Tomorrow night, I've got to go to this club to get some shots. Want to come?"

"What's this one about?"

"Film noir. A mystery. Zombies. Want to be in it?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No, not really." John drank some more and put down his can. "So what do you think of her?"

"Who? Kelly?"

"Course that's who."

"She's pretty. Seems nice."

"Pretty? Christ man, she's fucking beautiful."

"Someone's perving." Marc hit him with one hand, then waved at some guys who walk out onto the deck with another cooler. "She know you're cracking on her?"

"Dunno. She's got the lead though."

"Christ, Marc Verity's sign of true love. Giving someone the lead in one of his films. Bet she gets to improve her lines and everything."

"It's true. Keep's 'em coming dun it?"

"Ellis ever make his move on Rachel?"

"You kidding? Him, move on her? We've only been waiting for what, three years?"

"Still nothing? Christ."

"And you missed two years of it." Marc paused. "Sorry I-"

"No, I should be sorry. And I am."

"Hey, hopefully you were having fun. And you're alright."

"Yeah." John started his second beer. All in all the party wasn't that bad. Someone showed up with some mull, and John managed to finagle a joint without paying. That would probably come to bite his ass but at the moment, sharing it with Marc, Kelly and this other girl (John couldn't remember her name although he had the suspicion that she used to be in some of his classes) who kept staring at him, and some others, it wasn't all that bad. Until he looked at his watch and noticed it was nearly one. "Shit," he said, stumbling up. Marc looked up from where he sat with Kelly in his lap, her mouth attached to his ear.

"What?"

"Told my dad I'd be home by midnight."

"What time is it?"

"Almost one."

"Oh shit," said Kelly, standing. "I should start kicking people out."

"I'll help," said Marc. "See you later John." John nodded and headed off, looking for his jacket.

The cool air helped to clear his head as he jogged slowly. Hopefully his dad wouldn't notice that he was late. The back door was unlocked and he opened it slowly, hoping it wouldn't creak. Watching the floorboards he headed into the living room, the only way to get to the stairs and his room, wading through the dark and the sound of the TV. Hopefully his father had passed out in front of the TV. "You're late." His father was now watching a recap of the footy game he must have drank through.

"I uh, I um."

"You're late."

"Sorry. I lost track of the time. It won't, it won't happen again." His father was standing, moving to block John's way to the stairs.

"It better not."

"It won't, dead set." His father was still coming nearer. John hoped the closeness was based on alcohol's ability to remove any thought of personal space and nothing else.

"It, it shouldn't have happened in the first place." His father was slurring.

"Dad, I-"His father pushed John into the wall. "please." His father swung.

John curled under his blanket, tonguing the throb in his lip, gingerly twisting his chin stud, feeling the pads of his fingertips around the edge of the stud. His eye hurt, his chest too but he knew he should think himself lucky that his father had lost interest so quickly. Maybe if he were bigger, or not so afraid, he would have hit him back but John knew that wouldn't have changed anything. His dad still outweighed him, was still stronger, and still had more alcohol in him. He wouldn't have stopped. John had thought maybe, maybe by taking off his father had gotten help, or decided to stop or hell, taken some measure of responsibility and realized he was the reason John ran, the reason he had run in the first place (lighting the field on fire had been an accident, which John couldn't say for his father's kiss), but John knew that was stupid too. Things don't change.

Piker- someone who's anti-social (leaves parties earl and such)

Crack onto (someone)- hit on them, fancy them


	7. Chapter Seven

"Bobby?"  
  
"Yes Professor?" Bobby tried to not notice too greatly the boy, no, young man, oh god he hated referring to teenagers. No matter what description he used it sounded wrong, off, even in his head.  
  
"I thought that perhaps you would like showing around our new student?" Bobby had know it was a new student because other the criteria that he hadn't seen him before, Professor Xavier was talking, not beaming thoughts into his head. Frankly it creeped him out when that happened but he didn't talk to the Professor all that often, just in English really and unless the Professor was yelling at you, he talked. (At least, that's what John and Remy said.) The most recent was the day after John left when the Professor wanted to talk about how he felt, him being John's room mate and all and probably John's closest friend here. He had talked then but maybe he was a good multi-tasker and had been busy learning all about Bobby's wet dreams that froze the room or the time John and he got really drunk on Scott's wine coolers and let him blame Logan. What was it Jean had said once, that complete filth was always the first thing that people thought of when they knew their minds were being read?  
  
Bobby didn't think John was complete filth. The wet dreams part maybe but not the wine coolers. More of a could-majorly-screw-up-his-position-as-a- good-boy thing, especially because the Professor probably had learned that it was Bobby who found the wine coolers and told John and said they should try them, since Scott wasn't supposed to have the alcohol on school grounds. It was to teach him a lesson, really.  
  
"Sure." The Professor smiled and Bobby turned to the boy. Golden hair, curling around the base of his neck, lacrosse build. Some interestingly cut shirt. He stuck out his hand and gave his best All-American smile. "I'm Bobby."  
  
"Warren." They shook and Warren stood.  
  
"Your things are already in your room," said the Professor. "You'll be rooming by yourself, I'm afraid. I hope you enjoy your time here."  
  
"Thanks for having me." They left the room, Warren with his hands in his pocket and Bobby ready for some instant synapse message like, 'don't fuck it up Bobby. He's got a rich daddy' or 'you're supposed to have him in your room Bobby. Christ it's not like John died or he's coming back or that you were anything other than comic book buddies' or something.  
  
"So you've seen the Professor's office. Show you one of the better places, the kitchen. You hungry?"  
  
"A little thirsty."  
  
"We really only have juice or soda- school and all that." Bobby debated adding something on to that then figured a quick, 'what the hell'. If Warren was a mole, well the Professor was a mind reader so he'd was screwed any way. "Remy, I'll introduce you, can generally scope out alcohol if that's your desire." Warren smiled. "Help yourself." Bobby motioned to a cupboard and settled onto a stool, watching Warren rummage.  
  
"Do you want anything?"  
  
"Um, if there's Mountain Dew." Warren's shoulder blades seemed to have their own agenda, Bobby noticed, as Warren pulled out two cans and sat himself across from Bobby. Bobby raised his for a toast. "Welcome to Insecurity Central." Warren smiled.  
  
"Cheers."  
  
"Cheers." Warren drank a little and made a small face. Bobby reached over and touched his fingers to the can, still raised to Warren's lips. I may not be able to turn water to wine but damn, would I be useful in a blackout, he thought. Warren sputtered and quickly put his can down.  
  
"How'd?" Bobby made a statue, a small elephant.  
  
"Ice." Warren stared at him and then unbuttoned his shirt. As he worked the buttons, Bobby thought, mutant libido? Super nipples? Super belly button lint? Maybe he could do that thing with the stomach, the belly dancing thing where people rolled their- Warren stretched his wings. "Holy shit." Warren gave half a grin. "Mine looks like fucking party tricks now. That's... that's... how the hell do you swim?"  
  
"I don't generally."  
  
"Shower?"  
  
"It takes a bit longer to dry off but..."  
  
"Wow. Well looks like I didn't get the cool mutation." Warren laughed and folded his wings back. "Wait, could I... maybe..." Warren smiled and nodded, folding one wing around him so Bobby could slowly stroke the feathers. "Shit." Warren buttoned up his shirt.  
  
"But no really the ice thing, I'm sure that comes in handy." Bobby knew his mouth still open hut he couldn't help it. It was almost like challenging what little faith he had; suddenly Christianity and the whole angel thing took on a whole new meaning.  
  
"Yeah. A little. Wow. I'm sorry, I'm just.... Cool." Warren laughed again. "I guess, I should start showing you around and everything but... that must have been hell when you hit puberty and those things sprouted. Did they sprout, like an alien seedpod or something or was it like bones growing or you just woke up one morning and hello, you're preening? Like... "  
  
"I've always had them. Was born with them." Bobby must have made a face. "Yeah, it surprised my mother too but suddenly a lot of the ultrasounds made sense and stuff. Must have hurt like hell though, the wings coming out, and everything, even though she had a C-section. They've grown with me which I guess is the weirdest thing, and I think my bones are hollow or a lot lighter than normal people, like birds or something."  
  
"How'd you hide it?"  
  
"My dad paid off this tailor and he's been making special shirts and sweaters and all that since I was little. I went to boarding school for two years- got changed when no one was looking although, I shed sometimes, the feathers, so new ones could grow and that was always a little awkward."  
  
"But like... changing in the locker room?"  
  
"I didn't. I played sports so I didn't have to take gym and I could change on my own then. I'd stay late on the field, practicing or whatever so I had the locker room to myself. But when I hit my growth spurt they got bigger so I moved back to New York City and just did private school."  
  
"What do your parents think? Your relatives?"  
  
"They're always traveling and I'm not really close to any of my extended family. I usually have the apartment for months at a time on my own. When I was younger I had a nanny who knew but she was paid enough to stay quiet. What happened with yours? When did you know?"  
  
"Honestly? The wet dreams that froze the sheets were a good first clue. I didn't know the real thing till I was like 13, when things started freezing when I touched them. Then the Professor contacted me and I told my family I got a full scholarship to a prep school for the gifted in upstate New York."  
  
"Yeah? The Professor contacted me too. Like two weeks ago. He kept talking about how much better it would be to be here so I figured what the hell. Are you a sophomore?"  
  
"Yeah. You too?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
"Cool." Bobby finished off his can and played with it for a moment, freezing it then unfreezing it until the metal started to warp. "C'mon, I'll show you the rest of the way around." They walked through the halls and Bobby pointed out different classrooms, the dining room, the living room. They stopped in there and Bobby introduced him to Kitty and Jubilee. They headed upstairs.  
  
"So, who's John?"  
  
"He was my roommate. He left three weeks ago. He, um, was a runaway and his dad found out he was here. So he went back home, to Australia."  
  
"Wait, his dad took him home even though he was a mutant?"  
  
"That's Marie's room. She's nice. We used to date. No, he, uh, didn't know he was a mutant. John ran before he found out."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"I'm assuming that's your room, so I could help you unpack or we could go to my room or something. I'm really bad at this stuff but I guess the Professor chooses me 'cause I don't have a noticeable accent and I look like I should be at a prep school."  
  
"I guess, I could check out your room." Bobby led the way again. He flopped on the bed, unsure if he really felt like offering up his dessert supply. That still felt a little like betraying John and considering he was already feeling bad for checking out Warren's ass, he'd rather not add any more stops to the guilt trip. "So everyone here is a mutant?"  
  
"Yup. Down to the kid with spikes on his back."  
  
"Oh." Warren's eyes went wide. "Ok."  
  
"So, do you have a girlfriend?"  
  
"No. Do you?"  
  
"Not ...anymore." Bobby was tempted to read John's email to Warren, tell him exactly everything, just to get the advice of someone who didn't know John, who didn't look secretly relived now he was gone. Someone who didn't even bother to forget that John wasn't coming back, who wouldn't say, "so are you going to sit in John's seat now Bobby?" Marie knocked on the door and then came in. "Marie, this is Warren. Warren, Marie."  
  
"Pleased to meet you. Um, dinner's done and Jean cooked, which means takeout. And I need someone to help me get the chicken lo mein now that..." 'John's not here,' thinks Bobby. Well at least his presence was noticed for certain things.  
  
"I'll help, I'm starved."  
"Let's go then," said Bobby and they left the room.  
  
Bobby read and reread the email. What John had written, 'whatever you tell anyone is your own choice. whatever we had, it was worth more than anything I can care to measure', that wasn't something you told a friend with benefits, or a comic book buddy. It would have been nice if John had written anything else too, other than 'please send the Krimpets as soon as possible please'. He was starting to sense a pattern in John's emails, his limiting his words to as few as possible. Except when it came to Krimpets.  
  
Later that night Bobby found himself standing outside of Scott's door and knocking. "Yes, Bobby? It's late, can't this-"  
  
"How did you find John's dad?"  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"It's just, he never even told me his last name or what town he was from. How did you know? Did Professor Xavier or Ms. Gray-"  
  
"No. He wrote his full name down on the last Math quiz. I checked it out online. Bobby, I know John was your friend but his father had the right to know where his son was."  
  
"Yeah. I'm sure he did." Bobby went back to his room. He stood in the middle for a moment not sure what he should do, what to do. There was some homework to be done that he could scratch off tomorrow morning, and a new Astro City that had come in the mail, and Krimpets to be boxed and sent. He could go talk to Warren or Marie or Remy or someone. Call home- he hadn't done that in a while. Hell, he could even do some Danger Room exercises or something. But there were too many excuses to be made for each action. Bobby opted to stand there. 


	8. Chapter Eight

John looked around the boozer. He felt like one of those Clint Eastwood characters his father loved, the ones who walk into a pub with five guys staring at them and when they leave, all ten eyes are swollen shut. He made his way down the bar, stopping in front of his father's stool, nodding at the bartender on the way down. "Dad?" His father's hand reflexively tightened around his pint. "Dad. Um, I think it's time for you to come home. It's ...it's three o'clock Dad."  
  
"Don't tell me what to do." His father stood up and reflexively John stepped backwards on his heels, sliding so he didn't actually move anywhere but made the action to.  
  
"C'mon, I got to take you home." His father pushed him back, John bumping into the stool, feeling the vibration as it scratched across the floor, like that tool a dentist would use to scrape clean his teeth.  
  
"Hey-"the bartender did his own almost-a-step now, and John turned his head to look at him. "Don't hit your kid, Evan."  
  
"Don't tell me what I can and can't do to me kid Mike. I'll do what the hell I want."  
  
"Yeah well you try and start another fight and you're not drinking here anymore, hear me?"  
  
"Dad, please." His father's posture changed slightly, his shoulders slumping in a little. John took his arm and tugged gently, firmly. "C'mon." Half pulling, he led his dad out of the bar and down the street.  
  
John opened the door fumbling, his father leaning more and more heavily upon him. Twisting, John nudged the door the rest of the way open with his foot and held his father about the chest, pulling him inside to the couch. His father slumped against him and made a gagging sound. "Shit. No, no, wait, please-"His father retched. "-fuck." John pushed his father back on to the couch, and watched him lean over. He picked up his legs and laid them on the couch, his father closing his eyes, his eyebrows pulling together in a grimace and then smoothing. John looked down. As he walked to the kitchen he pulled off his shirt, balling it so the vomit was on the inside and threw it into the sink. Reaching in the cupboard under there he pulled out a small bucket and brought it back to the couch, placing it under his father's head and taking a washrag, wiped his father's mouth.  
  
He sat on the floor, crossing his legs, and leaned against the loveseat, watching his father breathe until he too feel asleep.  
  
John woke up when he hear his alarm go off. Six thirty. He trudged upstairs and turned it off and stared into his closet for a moment, through the closed door. His father was still passed out. He could go to school, yeah, but his father... John went back to the kitchen and ran the hot water, washing his shirt and splashing some of the water on to his chest, up his arms, trying to wash off the vomit smell. He didn't want to shower in case the pipes woke up his father but if he didn't get that smell out of his nose he knew he was going to be sick too.  
  
He should be disgusted, John thought as he sat back down to watch his father sleep. He should be ashamed for his father, he should feel pity. Instead John curled up on the floor and let himself fall asleep. "John. John. I have to go the toilet." John opened his eyes. His father was staring at him, his mouth slightly open and his Adam's Apple making those pre-gag jumps.  
  
John pulled him up and his father gagged against his shoulder and dropped to his knees, turning his head and vomiting again, this time on the hardwood floor, missing the off white square of carpet. "Ah- crap. Dad." John pulled at his father's arm when he had finished. "Dad, get up." His father let his arm be pulled, not moving, not resisting and letting himself be yanked up. "Dad you just vomited on yourself! I can't carry you, please! Get up!"  
  
"I've got no worth John."  
  
"No don't start that, just get-"  
  
"Don't tell me what to do!" His father looked at him, looked up at him, meeting his eyes with red rimmed ones. "Tell me who I am, John. Tell me who I am." His father wasn't blinking, letting his eyes water.  
  
"I, I can't speak Dad. I can't write. I can't, I can't tell you that."  
  
His father pulled at his arm, like a small child. "Tell me John, tell me who I am. Tell me who you mother loved, tell me who she left. Tell me who you left John. Tell me."  
  
"You got to get up! And I've got to clean the floor now! Please, just get up!" His father let himself be pulled up and John took his weight, as much as he could, guiding him up the stairs, pulling him into his room. He sat down on his father's bed and lifted his arm off his shoulders. He turned to guide his father to lie down and his father kissed him, leaning his weight into John's lips and when John pulled his face away, onto the red and golden yellow bedspread, curling up.  
  
John hesitated and then got up, closing his father's door behind him and going to sit on the stairs, staring at the pool of vomit, tracing the patterns of hair on his arms with his fingertips.  
  
"Hey John. You're here early today. You wag school or something?" Scott smiled at him. John smiled back. It was hard not to smile at Scott, and harder knowing that he was the one who controlled the payday. "Would you mind waxing those boards?" Scott pointed to the other counter, the rack of four. Three short, one long. "On the long, you got to use the liquid stuff. Got some weird paint job according to the bloke who dropped it off; it doesn't look like any I've seen before." John nodded and headed for the counter, dodging around the racks of wet suits, the skate T-Shirts.  
  
"John."  
  
John looked up, his hands still methodically working the wax into the long board. "Mr. McFarland."  
  
"I think you dripped a bit on you." John stopped and looked down at his shirt, the splotch and comet's tail of wax that stained his shirt.  
  
"Oh shit." He wiped his hands and then rubbed at his T-Shirt, hoping the wax would flake and peel off.  
  
"Shouldn't you wash that off?"  
  
"Yeah, I will. Why, you looking to watch?" John looked up and stopped. He knew that look. And Mr. McFarland knew he had seen it.  
  
"I'll see you around John." He started to turn, to leave, to rush out.  
  
"How much would you pay me?"  
  
"What?" Mr. McFarland turned back to him.  
  
"How much would you pay me to watch me shower?"  
  
"Strewth, John I... are you serious?"  
  
"Yeah." John met Mr. McFarland's eyes. This could be it. His father knew exactly how much he made, how much he put in the bank. He could never leave, not on this paycheck. It wouldn't be enough, not enough to get out of Australia, probably barely enough to get out of Victoria. Never to America. Never to New York. But this, this under-the-table income, this could be enough. And it wasn't like he was going to have sex with Mr. McFarland. As far as he knew, there weren't any laws against letting other people watch you shower but then again, his knowledge of law was mainly limited to a little research he had done on domestic violence and drug laws.  
  
Mr. McFarland kept his voice down. "Twenty."  
  
"Fifty."  
  
"Forty." Mr. McFarland nodded. John stuck out his hand and they shook. "Just come over some time this week, my back door. After eight, alright?" John nodded and then stood up as Scott came close. Scott wrapped his arm around Mr. McFarland's shoulder.  
  
"My brother giving you trouble John?" John smiled and nodded no. "You gonna come over for dinner this week? Kelly's been asking for you, the kids too. They want to see their favorite uncle to give them some piggy back rides."  
  
"Yeah sure, maybe tomorrow?" Scott smiled and nodded.  
  
"John, you ever heard of a writer that spends more time driving around then writing?" John shook his head no again, then turned back to the board, rubbing the wax again.  
  
"I'll see you Scotty. John." John nodded and heard Mr. McFarland leave the shop.  
  
"John when you're done with those, we got a new shipment of wheels and bearings. Would you mind shelving them?"  
  
"No. Not at all."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Dad? Dad? Where you going?" His father didn't look at him or answer. He sat up from where he rested his head against the steering wheel, noticing for the first time that his bottle was dripping onto the dashboard. "Dad, you're wasting petrol." He reached over and turned the key in the ignition, turning off the car. "Dad, why don't you get out of the car? I'll make some dinner, k? I picked up some chicken and junk, I can make whatever you want." John ignored the cars that idled by the house, watching his father and him, the neighbors who were glancing out from behind curtains, slowly walking out their trash. "Dad, c'mon." Slowly John pulled his father out of the car and taking the bottle of piss out of his hand, he put his father's arm on his shoulder with the other and brought him inside.  
  
John was doing the dishes when Ellis stuck his head inside the back door, and seeing that John's father wasn't in the kitchen, came inside. "You missed school today." He took up the rag and began to dry the dishes.  
  
"Yeah. I wasn't feeling so great this morning."  
  
"Saw your dad this afternoon."  
  
"And you didn't even bring him the fuck inside? You left him there?"  
  
"John, the last time I talked to him, I asked him if he heard from you and he slammed the door in my face. My hand was on the frame John."  
  
"Yeah well, he's upstairs if you're interested in repeating the conversation."  
  
"Noted." Ellis dried for a bit. "So what, you have to go pick him up last night?"  
  
"Yeah. And he had the car keys so I couldn't even drive and do it. This morning, he was puking all over the place and I didn't want to leave him."  
  
"He didn't waste much time then, huh?" John shot Ellis a glare that he hoped meant 'fuck you' and not 'I'm PMS-ing'. But he guessed it was his own fault, for saying anything. "You going out this weekend? Or blowing people off like last?"  
  
"I never told Marc I was going to the club with him."  
  
"Yeah well, you want to catch a film or something?"  
  
"What zombie flick is playing?"  
  
"Something involving possessed priests, down at the Forum. Midnight show. Tell your dad you're sleeping over and afterwards, I dunno. We can go to the Bronze or something." John shrugged.  
  
"Yeah maybe."  
  
"So is your dad..."  
  
"He's passed out if you want to watch a movie or something."  
  
"Ace." Ellis pulled from his pocket some Japanese horror movie, the cover a grainy black and white photograph of a girl in a straitjacket. "Let's go." John tossed the rag into the sink and followed Ellis to the living room. "What'd you do all day?"  
  
"Cleaned. Dishes, laundry, swept. Went to work. Pretty much it. Miss anything?"  
  
"We started a new book in English. New section, uh, 'Journeys of Discovery' or some crap. Starting "On the Road." Some Seppo novel."  
  
"It's good."  
  
"You read it?"  
  
"Yeah, couple months ago. Got bored."  
  
"Christ man. Only person I know who would run away and would read classics." Ellis paused and John concentrated on the opening credits. "Sorry. I guess I shouldn't bring that up."  
  
"Right. Let's just watch the damn film." 


	9. Chapter 9

"To one visitor in the early 1960s he said: "I like to sit and think and write my thoughts. The few people who have seen my work find it too deep for them." He then pointed to a pair of trousers hanging on the wall by a nail, "I crocheted these out of string," he said. "It took me a long while because I didn't have a pattern. I had to keep trying them on."

-From the obituary of Earl Russell in the Daily Telegraph, December 18, 1987

Bobby was ready to leave when they walked in the door. He hated these museum trips. More specifically, he hated these museum trips without John, although truth be told this was the first. John had never expected him to make the trips more exciting, waiting for some joke or prankster amusement. Then again, John was sarcastic enough for the both of them; with John Bobby didn't feel the need to be anybody really, just him.

And John was always willing to sneak off and just hang out, whether that meant leaving the museum and wandering around the city streets or critiquing pieces- John had an eye for art, and an opinion. Bobby had caught him on more than one occasion sketching when he thought Bobby thought he was doing his homework, had walked in on him using charcoal in a sketch pad John was always quick to hide, had noticed that John would painstakingly erase all drawings and doodles from the margins of his notes, even if Bobby didn't ask to borrow them. Hence the water color pencils Bobby had quietly given to him on Christmas, slipped along side the 'Pitch Black' DVD. John hadn't acknowledged the box really, just gave him a weird look, started to say something, cut himself off, then slipped it into a desk drawer. A few weeks later, while John was showering Bobby had peeked inside (just to check), saw that the box was open and some of the pencils were starting to wear down.

Bobby made sure to stray off early on, feinting as if he were going to use the restroom. He could always say he got lost and found himself wandering through the mummy section. Correction- not the mummy section, but the study of the artwork done on ancient Egyptian tombs. It reminded Bobby of a cemetery on display. 'Yeah whatever,' John would have said. 'Call it the fucking mummy section.'

He let himself wander through the halls within halls, until he wasn't sure which was the proper side of the velvet rope he should be on. That was kind of nice. John would roll his eyes at his attempt at breaking rules but screw John. Hypothetically speaking. "Bobby?" He turned and Warren was looking at him, on the other side of the rope. "You're not supposed to be over there. What are you doing?" Booby ducked under the rope.

"Nothing. Got lost."

"Oh. Wanted to make sure you weren't you know, impregnating anything or vandalizing valuable pieces of crap."

"Now Warren, where's your respect for the world of art? I expected more out of you."

"When someone sneezes on a piece of canvas, that's not art. That's a really big, really thick, really porous Kleenex."

"Listen to the idiot savant."

"That's for people like Rain Man, genius."

"Huh." Bobby smiled and let Warren lead the way back to the group. It was time to start thinking very hard on how he was lost and not on the wrong side of the velvet rope at all. Or even that the velvet rope was on the wrong side of him. Crap. This was why it sucked to have telepathic teachers. Plus, they got to listen in on all his trashy thoughts, like how Warren's ass was really nice or how lately Bobby spent the time before sleep wishing John was still around and imagining that he was back in the small space of time where he had had someone's bed to fall asleep in, someone to wrap his arms around. Christ, he sounded like a girl.

"Bobby? Did you get lost?"

"Yeah sorry. All the halls look the same. Well, I mean other than the changing art work but after a while even that kind of blurs together. I mean; I'll make sure to stay with the group." Jean smiled and turned back to lecturing. Hopefully that was an 'ok Bobby has had too much sugar again' smile and not one of those 'nice try Drake, and what's this about picturing me naked in class on Thursday?' ones. Bobby looked around the group, observing- Remy was watching a teenage girl who was a few pictures down with her school; Marie was more or less listening; Piotr looked anxious, ready to start creating his own pieces to add to the collection; Kitty and Jubilee were talking quietly back in forth (Bobby heard the term 'his ass is a definite eight' before he decided to concentrate elsewhere) and Warren had on one of those 'I've been here way too many times because my grandparents built this museum' looks. His grandparents probably had. Bobby went back to paying attention.

They ate lunch outside, their hands stamped green so they could go back inside and split into groups, exploring. Bobby guessed this was the good thing about a telepathic teacher- you were given the freedom to wander off 'cause they could pinpoint where you were, although this hadn't been good for him and John on more than one occasion. Bobby picked a fallen leaf of lettuce off his lap and threw it to the pigeons. "Don't encourage them," said Warren as they watched four flock to the bite of food and fight.

"Rats with wings," remarked Remy, his observation obstructed by his mouth full of pork-fried rice. Bobby bit back down into his double cheeseburger.

"It's so gross- they look nasty and breed like rabbits," said Marie. She picked her way through Bobby's French fries, dipping each into a mound of salt and pepper.

"Like Russians," cracked Remy and was rewarded with a firm punch on the shoulder from Piotr. "Christ, mon ami. It was a joke," he said pouty, rubbing hard at his shoulder. Bobby shoved the last bit of the burger in his mouth and swallowed hard. He coughed and rubbed his throat, feeling it go down slowly.

"Are you ok?" asked Piotr.

"Yeah, fine."Bobby balled up the greasy McDonalds wrapper and tossed it in the garbage. "Getting ice cream." He got up and Warren followed.

"You sure you're alright?" Bobby shrugged.

"Fine." Warren shrugged and Bobby bought a jumbo ice cream cone. He unwrapped it and shoved the top in his mouth, biting off a large chunk. Immediately he began to whimper. "Brain freeze." Warren began to slowly eat his own cone, looking smug as hell. Bobby glared, swallowed and took another bite.

"I thought you said you had a brain freeze." Bobby nodded, chewed and swallowed. "Then...but... forget it." They walked back to the group slowly. "How can you even get brain freezes, with the ice thing and everything? I mean, shouldn't you enjoy that and when you freeze your body doesn't you know..."

"My organs don't freeze. It's like my skin or something. I don't know. I mean, I don't get cold or frost bite even in the middle of winter. Brain freezes aren't cause of the cold; it's got something to do with nerves I think. Dr. Gray is still trying to figure things out. She's established that pretty much my body temp just adjusts, like in snakes and stuff but organs still work cause I still burn through energy. Hence the need for a cookie every time I refill the ice cube tray at dinner." Warren shrugged and they sat back down.

"You ready to go back in?" asked Piotr. They all agreed or shrugged and stood.

"You know Warren," said Bobby as he stood at the Rosenquist painting, letting his eyes slowly fade in and out of focus as John had taught him to do to absorb the whole picture then smaller pieces, "there's a circle of hell reserved for people who keep humming Duran-Duran." He was rewarded for his observation by being hit on the arm. Hard.

"It's stuck in my head. Blame Kitty. I'm just the messenger."

"Well now it's stuck in mine." Warren shrugged. Bobby had once thought socialites were concerned with what other people thought of them. But evidently, he had slowly realized, the people who counted did not include 15-year-old Bostonian closeted bisexual mutants who were ready to strangle them for being an ass and humming crappy white-leather-jacket 80s music. And Bobby knew he represented a small community but even communities of one deserved some respect and consideration, damn it.

He wandered away from the room of Rosenquist and out onto a large deck. The first thing he saw was swirls of color, which separated into chandeliers looking like birthing starfish and alien daffodils, hanging from metal scaffolds, some lit from the inside with small colored lights so they resembled blooming stars, swirling and moving in and out of themselves. "Guys? You might want to come out here."

"Holy shit," said Remy quietly, coming out to stand behind him. Bobby was reluctant to remove, despite the hot breath he could feel on his neck and the weight against his back, like dominoes, as everyone slowly came outside. He was afraid if he moved, or breathed too much, he would cause a wind strong enough to knock down the hanging glass or plastic or whatever it was. And besides the fact he probably wouldn't be allowed to step outside the Mansion again if that happened and that the giant pieces would probably kill someone as they crashed to the ground or at least spray projectiles that would blind or mutilate or seriously cause some bleeding as they hurled into the group (well except for Piotr because he could just go organic steel on their bits-of-art-filled asses), he was worried he'd ruin something so beautiful. It was Piotr who did it as he added his weight to the rear of the five, and Bobby stumbled forward.

Amazingly, nothing fell or even swayed, as he landed in an awkward 'about to run' position. The group split and began to wander around the terrace, ignoring the sounds of the city and staring up at the art stretched on cables above their heads. Bobby finally blinked and looked away, closing his mouth with a little embarrassment as he remembered that he was with other people. "Awe-inspiring, isn't it?" A woman stepped onto the deck. They nodded, dazed. "Dale Chihuly. He's a glass blower."

"He's a fucking genius," remarked Warren, although Bobby was pretty sure he was the only one who heard it. Warren tended to refrain from cursing loudly in public which was Bobby guessed, a positive from growing up rich and yuppie. Unless Warren was preppy but really, the only thing that mattered was that Warren had grown up rich. And well mannered.

"How does he do this?" asked Marie, in one motion referring to the small pond where blobs of glass seals bobbed, the chandeliers and the standing, erupting other pieces.

"He works with a team of glass blowers to form the pieces and uses twine, wires, cables, all sorts of things to anchor them and create the art." She smiled. "You're lucky- it gets packaged up in two days, when the exhibit closes."

"But this is so, cool. Why would they send it off?" asked Bobby, looking around him again quickly.

"Some of the pieces are going to be used in an exhibit in Venice, and I'm sure it's hassle for the museum to display glass out in the open; it's very easy for something to happen. Enjoy it," she said and stepped back inside. They walked around for another few moments, the spell of the art broken by the realization that this could be their last viewing up. Bobby tried to soak in the colors and cuts in the glass, absorb all the shapes. John would have loved this. Some of the pieces looked like crystallized, softened fire.

They walked around the rest of the museum quietly, blinking from the change in light, nothing quite catching their eyes like the bright lights and colors, returning inside one by one. "Makes me wish I could fly in the daylight, so I could see them from above," said Warren quietly to Bobby as they looked at some Kupka paintings, the slowly drifted down to Chagall.

"Wish John could have seen it."

"He would have liked it?" Warren sounded incredulous.

"Yeah, why?"

"I just, everyone said... that John was..."

"What?"

"Just, I wouldn't have thought he would be into this."

"Christ, how would you have liked it if everyone just assumed shit about you?" Bobby knew he sounded defensive and probably a little too loud and hysterical to continue the notion that he and John had only friendship between them.

"Bobby, I'm from a wealthy family and went to prep school- most people assume that immediately after birth the doctors surgically inserted a silver spoon up my ass in hopes in would fuse to my spine or something." Bobby didn't answer, but glared angrily at the 'Paris Through the Window', his eyes starting to go out of focus from the angles and the colors. "Jeez Bobby, I didn't think, I mean, I didn't know John- I only know what other people say. I didn't mean to offend you."

"Sorry too." They slowly walked into the next room, looking at the Klee installation. "It just pisses me off that everyone thinks that John was an idiot or whatever because he wasn't a people person."

"No one's said that. It's been more of a like, 'resident bad boy' or something. Like, I just I don't associate art with fire."

"John just didn't really give a shit."

"Oh." They wandered into the next room, a grouping of post-modern sculptures, and didn't say anything for a time. "Wish I could pull that off."

"That?" Warren looked shocked as he pointed to a representation of some phallic symbol inverting.

"No! Definitely not a good party quirk. Probably should see a doctor about that one.I meant, not caring what other people think. I just, I think sometimes maybe if John had been the one with a people-sense-of-humor no one would give a shit if I left either."

"Nobody said they didn't give a shit. And Bobby, you and John are two different people." Bobby shrugged.

"It's just- John got me. He didn't expect me to be laughing all the time, or always conniving or goofing off."

"I don't."

"I know." Warren touched Bobby's shoulder, a gesture of respect, of friendship. "Just be nice to have everything figured out."

"When you do, let me know."

"Well, according to the books, I'd have to a, be a suicidal alcoholic post-college writer with women troubles dumped by another girlfriend, or b, in some convent in Tibet, sweeping floors."

"Tibet was absorbed by China, Bobby."

"Really? When?"

"Fifty years ago, I think."

"Damn. That sucks."

They moved onto another room and Warren laughed, pointed out a statue of a man standing in the corner, his hands clasped behind his back. "'Martin, Stand in the Corner and be Ashamed of Yourself.'" They laughed again. "That's great."

"Now Warren, you're not appreciating the aesthetic value of the piece. What does it say about the artist? About ourselves? About the world as a whole?"

"Someone got caught breaking a window?" Bobby laughed.

"Hand in cookie jar."

"Jacking off in class."

"Wow, wait a minute-"

"A kid in my eighth grade history class- it was a female teacher too. We found out later she was a lesbian which only fueled the, uh, happy stains."

"Crap."

"Yeah." They smiled, Bobby chewing on the left side of his bottom lip (his dopey grin face, as John had called it) and went back to wandering through the room. **_Everyone back to the front of the museum. It's time to go- you have five minutes to get in front of the gift shop. We have to return the bus by six and there will be traffic._**

"You'd think we could just take the jet or something, or fly the bus telepathically but no. Just plain old yellow school buses. Even Hover Boards would be cool. Well, Hover Boards are always cool." Warren nodded and started to leave the room. Bobby caught up.

"What do boarding schools use for transportation?"

"Vans. Buses with TVs. They don't really do transportation though, because you realize after a while that, uh, most people's ancestor's were there when the Declaration of Independence was signed or whatever."

"Sounds nice." Warren shrugged. They waited in front of the gift shop, watching Marie and Piotr compare purchases and Remy finger his pack of cigarettes. Bobby decided to go back in one more time; maybe he could find something he missed the first three trips around that wasn't blatantly expensive. He found himself in a small corner, which looked almost accidental, as if the bookshelves shifted on their own because Monet and Renoir wanted to be able to see each other. He smiled at the thought and a title jumped out at him- 'Chihuly: A Life in Glass'. He reached up and pulled out the book, flipping through the pictures of Chihuly's work and the places it had been displayed. Checking the price he bought it, still absorbing the pictures on line, pulling it out of the bag to look at more.

"Bought yourself something?" asked Warren as they sat on the bus (Bobby got window).

"For John. Thought the Krimpets were starting to look lonely all by themselves." Warren nodded and handed over his own gift, for Bobby. He took it out of the bag and looked at it- "The Art of Tibet".

"For enlightenment." Bobby smiled and punched Warren on the shoulder. He rubbed it, and they rode home.

Note: I pretty much designed my own ideal museum for this piece. All artists and work mentioned do exist if you wish to look them up.


	10. Chapter 10

(first then)

John turned on the water and let it stream over him. He wouldn't let his hands shake. He wouldn't. 'Take a shower as you would normally,' Mr. McFarland said. Take a shower as he would normally but normally he didn't take showers with audiences. Normally he didn't let other people see bruises or cuts or him. Christ, it was almost a year before he would walk around without a shirt in front of Bobby, before he stopped bringing his clothes into the bathroom to change into, damp skin and humid air making them sticky.

He reached up and searched his hand through the shampoo bottles. Everything felt empty but for one. Apple. He rubbed it into his hair and tried to ignore the glass between the shower and the outside. And John could only think of his father. His fucking father. Oh God, he was such a queer; it might as well be fucking official now, with hats and pins and slogans and shit. And a fucking whore now. A god damn- his father had every right to hit him, to hate him because he was letting someone, a fucking guy at that, watch him shower for money. No. No mustn't think of that. Mustn't think of the outside. John cleared his mind and took the shower, moving in and out of the stream.

He rubbed a palm against the glass so he could look out. "I'm done," he said over the water. Mr. McFarland nodded lazily and buttoned his pants. John shut the water off and grabbed a towel, covering himself. "I want to get dressed now. By myself." Mr. McFarland left.

John tried not to look in the mirror as he dressed, barely drying off, his hair soaking the back of his shirt as it dripped, twisted and tangled. His woven black bracelet hung soggy on his wrist and he knew his rings would leave rust stains on the roots of his left ring finger and thumb, where metal touched. He didn't care. Mr. McFarland waited in the hall and eyed up John but John guessed there was nothing to say to him, nothing he could say. "How does this work?" he asked, hating being the first to speak.

"How do you want it to work?"

"You pay me cash the day of. I come when I want to, leave when I want to. You don't call me, you don't tell anyone. You don't say anything about my body. You don't touch me or ask to." Mr. McFarland nodded for each request.

"Is that it?" John shrugged. "When you come here you come in the back door. If I have company you leave without making a scene. You can come when you want, go when you want but do not try to cheat me John." John nodded, his turn now. "Are there shampoos you like? Soaps?"

"Just shit that smells clean. Nothing scented." Nothing like apple. Or berry. Or Bobby's peppermint.

"Are you hungry?" John shook his head.

"I think I want to go." Mr. McFarland nodded and handed him the money. John put it in his pocket, itching the skin next to his lighter. He ran his fingers over the metal casing as he walked home, shook his head like a dog and felt the water fall back upon him.

(earlier)

So it wasn't goddamn love. At least John knew that. Accepted it. Could call himself on it. What it was, was people staring at the pucker in the back of his jeans because he wasn't wearing a belt, the fingernail curve of his black boxer-briefs, his black T Shirt, his arms. Not so much his face. What it was, was free drinks on his birthday, his first in this country. What it was, was touch. What it was, was ignoring the goddamn rules for one night, ignoring Bobby's morals and ignoring any thoughts of Bobby's lips, his eyes, his laugh, his comatose sugar high smile. "_Can I buy you a drink?_"

"_Sure. Surprise me._" The guy didn't look that old, but then again, looks were deceiving. John didn't look newly- sixteen, hadn't looked his age since he turned thirteen, and this had always bought him enough drinks. Maybe thirty, early thirties? Late twenties? Really good plastic surgery or organic living or whatever was in style? Who cares, he told himself. He's buying drinks.

"_A rum and coke for this gentleman, and a white Russian for myself_." The bartender slid over the napkins, taking away John's empty beer bottle whose top he had been suckling for the past few minutes, wondering if it was worth trying to barter another drink without ID.

John drank.

"_So, what are you doing later_?"

"_Nothing in particular_." John had been keeping track of the drinks. Three for him, plus the bottle of beer and the vodka shot from before, when it was Howie sitting next to him, Howie with his boyish face and eyes that kept wandering to the metal stud in John's chin that he got when he was twelve and had been rewarded for his act of independence with a beating via some assholes from the Upper Forms and then his father, for the piercing **_and_** getting into a fight at school. Howie who had to go and mention comic books. And for this guy, Andrew, that's what he claimed his name was, a White Russian, then something John couldn't remember and then his current White Russian. Were there any drinks named for this country? Or was America as much as a melting pot when it came to alcohol as it was with people? John toasted his last gulp to himself. To walking two miles to get to this fucking five-mile town and then having to look for a bar. To forgetting. To breaking the Mansion's goddamn rules. To Bobby's lips and the ideas they held, the feelings in his gut and sensations across his skin that they brought up. To Bobby's easy ability to throw his arm around his shoulders. To Bobby's familiarity with touch that John envied, that made his lips spasm. To cheap sex and whatever B movie (John thought it was 'Jesus Christ: Vampire Slayer') Bobby had thought to put on and watch. To sitting in this man's lap as he drove down the street, to his apartment, kissing Andrew's neck, his lips, his collar bone, his chest while Andrew steered and switched gears with one hand and didn't wear his seat belt.

John lay on the black black sheets, listening to Andrew breathe drunkenly, softly. Sighing he untangled his arms and legs, sliding out from under Andrew, who nestled his cheek into the pillow instead. Gathering up the condoms, he tied them and threw them into the trashcan in the attached bathroom that didn't have doors, John didn't think there were doors anywhere in this apartment; pulling back on his underwear, he went to the leather couch and fell asleep there, his skin sticking to the black animal skin, letting it wrap around him and hold him, watching the sky going lighter through the blinds. He missed Australia sometimes, watching the sunrise especially. It felt so late here; even almost a year after he had found his way to New York.

He awoke a few hours later and listened. Quiet. No pipes running, no Bobby's whispering snore. He walked back into the bedroom and got dressed watching Andrew watching him. "_You weren't here when I woke up_." John shrugged. "_You sure you don't want to stay_?" Andrew motioned to the bed, the melted pools of candles, himself. John smirked.

"_I'm alright for now. Going out for a bit_." John grabbed an apricot from the produce drawer in the refrigerator and left, walking back to the Mansion. Scott picked him up a mile out of town and proceeded to end life as he knew it for the next month and a half.

(now)

"John. John!" John woke up. "Put it on." His father was staring down at him; John scrambled up. His skin did look light reflective white in the dark, he thought for a moment looking down at his bare chest, then back at his father. Bobby was right. He shook his head for a second, slightly, trying to distill the random line from an email from his mind.

"W- what?" His father shoved his mother's make up kit at him, pushing it into his chest. "Dad, I-"

"Do it John." His father yanked on his arm, pulling him into the master bathroom. John's eyes watered and involuntarily closed at the sudden outburst of light. He slowly put the makeup, feeling his father's breath on his neck, his eyes watching him over his head. The make up was running down, he could see a plastic hole through the foundation. Maybe that meant he would have to buy some more soon, an action he didn't want to consider until he didn't have a choice in the matter.

He finished and looked into the mirror, the corner of his eye watching his father look at him. He concentrated and looked at his face carefully, searching out pieces of his mother. John could see the curve of her jaw within his own, her eyes except they were the wrong color, gray blue and hers had been a brown that looked like you could fall into them. Like Bobby's. He removed his father's nose, the chin labret, the thicker eyebrows, the peroxide hair falling into her eyes- he could see how his mother's face could super-imposed upon his own.

John felt his father's hand grip his hip, wrapping around his stomach, pulling him so he faced him, to look at him. And John realized for a second, that these were the only times since he'd been back that his father had touched him, outside of beating the crap out of him. His father's fingers touched his cheek- John looked at wall, trying to ignore the still persistent pull upon the belt loop of his jeans (Bobby hated it when he slept with his jeans on, thought it was unclean. He would almost force John to borrow sweat pants or shorts, which John had always considered more laundry and thus more work). He felt lips touching his and he flinched, trying to back away, the counter indenting a keen line into the small of his back, fingers moving up from his cheek to twist in his hair, the routine repeating itself. John waited for it to be done. "Dad-"John gagged as he always did, receding from tongue. His father should back away now, should be looking at him disgusted, blaming him for looking so much like his mother, having skin like his mother's; his father should not be pressing into him more. John couldn't bend any farther away. His father slid his hand over, and grabbed his crotch, clutching into jeans- a death grip tight, painful, as if he thought they were women's pants, flat- and John pushed him, off of him. That was new and not welcome. His father stared at him and seeing him and that he wasn't who he had hoped for, imagined into being, and lurched forward and pushed, then punched once, leaving John's eye throbbing. He let his legs go loose and hit the ground. His father left the room.

He let himself curl into a ball, staring at the wall, letting his eyes drag down the spot from before. His father was throwing things, pillows, shoving the mattress off the bed, hurling a picture frame and when John left the bathroom finally, after scrubbing the make up down, into his skin, and eventually off, he made sure not to step on the broken glass in his bare feet, the slam of the front door still ringing in his ears as he lay in bed waiting for sleep. He kept his watch pressed to his ear, listening to the small tick and concentrating on the touch of the metal.


	11. Chapter 11

It had not been the worst day ever. That day was reserved for like, giant tidal waves sweeping out the Eastern Seaboard and Texas-sized asteroids from the sky, or repeats of February 7, 2001, when Rocky, 'This is my third year of seventh grade', 'Blade', Beasley said to him at recess "I'm gonna kick your ass after school", rendering a year of trying not to get on Blade's bad side completely, totally, pointless and ruining the rest of the day because he couldn't muster up a good enough stomach ache to get sent home sick. The worst night ever had been explaining to his father where the black eye, fat lip, and busted thumb had come from, because he didn't know how to throw a punch. And the next night, when he froze his sheets for the first time, that hadn't helped things.

And the worst part about the not-quite-the-worst-day-ever was that Bobby hadn't even woken up in the morning thinking, "this is going to be a bad day." Not that the chances of that happening were good, but it would have been nice to wake up knowing that today was going to be off the Richter Scale of Suck-sicity. Which he guessed just added to the general crappiness of the day because if he _had_ known, there would have been definite consideration of the "fuck it- I'm not getting out of bed'" option.

Breakfast had been his first clue- spilling syrup over himself was bad enough, but freezing everyone's plate so their attention shifted to him, and then having to get up and exit the dining hall with his napkin stuck to his pants, leaving behind frosted footprints on the carpet, was definitely not cool. The added bonus being that he got to be the source of Jubilee's wisecracks for the rest of the day, just in case he forgot for a fraction of a millisecond. Plus, after breakfast, he was late to Professor Summer's class and then subsequently French and Classic Lit until lunch because each professor kept him after to find out why he had taken his time in arriving.

Skipping lunch had also been a bad idea. Originally he had decided he wasn't that hungry anyway, and remembered he had some left over granola bars his mother had sent him a few weeks ago. He could check his email (maybe John had emailed him which was feasible since it had been a week and half since the last time they talked) and work on Dr. McCoy's Classic Lit paper, which read as surf the Internet with the additional bonus of there being no Jubilee in his room (he assumed, but wouldn't put it past her). The granola bars hadn't been that bad although he was left wishing for something thicker than a can of soda to wash them down with, and perhaps a sandwich to completely fill him up. And there had been no Jubilee although every time he stood up he could still feel the fabric of his cargo jeans stick slightly to his thighs because he hadn't had enough time to clean up in the morning, other than switching his pants and quickly running a washcloth over his legs.

The email bit- that had kinda sucked. His mother had sent him an email asking him when he was going to come home for a weekend and were they ever going to visit him at school? And speaking of, when were they going to get to meet some of his friends, maybe that roommate he had mentioned? A whole new set of stomach clenches had begun as he debated how to answer the email and tried not to let himself be brought back to the issue of John because even though it wasn't like he was still pining after two months or anything or anymore or like he didn't have other friends (even the slightly sadistic ones who found it more than adequate entertainment to insult him) but it still wasn't a great feeling when he thought of John and what he might be doing in Australia and who he might be doing it with. The most John had offered on that subject was that he had a 'few friends', which, as far as Bobby knew could be code for 'orgies in the middle of second period and Christ, Drake did you honestly think you had anything to offer me? You were just convenient, dumb ass.'

About that time he had realized he was going to be late for Chemistry. Professor Munroe didn't take bull from anyone and her radar was generally right on target when it came to 'lame ass excuses'. Thankfully he had met up with Warren who had covered his butt by saying that Bobby had helped him pick up his dropped books but for the rest of the day, Bobby's mind was gone. Down to icing his desk when Professor Xavier dropped a pop quiz on them in History. He didn't actually process that those blank spaces on the paper were meant to have answers about the Cultural Revolution in China and his reasons for arriving at those answers until there were three minutes left in the period. But maybe bombing his classes could be used as a good excuse for not letting his parents visit, since 'I'd rather just come home' was starting to wear thin. And at least Professor Xavier hadn't started to beam questions into his head, wondering why Bobby was so distracted.

He had wandered back to his room then, and spent a good half hour tossing and catching his Hackey Sak until he realized he was supposed to be training with Warren and Professor Summers. He had run down to the Danger Room and then had to endure a long lecture while his cheeks went through all the Crayola variations of red.

"Bobby, what's with you today?" Warren asked quietly as they changed in the locker room, not that volume mattered because Professor Summers was working Jubilee and Piotr now and that generally led to loud crashes and the occasional explosion.

"Nothing. Just not my day."

"Not your day- you've been off since breakfast. And back there? Icing your feet to the floor? I've never seen you do that."

"Just a bad day, ok?"

"The kind where you want to talk about it or the kind where you tell me to mind my own business and storm off to your room leaving icicles on the walls?" Bobby sighed and sat back down on the bench, lacing up his shoes. Damn social etiquette. Warren sat next to him and waited.

"With the syrup and the subsequent jokes and being late to all my classes and bombing Professor Xavier's pop quiz and back there, I'm a little out of it." Warren nodded.

"She was just joking."

"I know. Gets to you after a while though."

"Yeah."

"And I got an email from my mom today. She wants to know when I want to come home for a weekend and whether she can come up and visit and I'm running out of excuses other than 'no you can't because my school is really the front for a drug ring and Professor Xavier who is actually a raving crack addict said that if anyone told their parents we'll all be sent to work in the mines in Chile and the reason I can't come home every weekend is because I'm busy working as a drug mule, but you always said you wanted me to travel.'

"You could tell her the truth, that-"

"Yeah, I'm gonna tell my mom that I'm a mutant. I can't tell that I'm b-"Bobby stopped and then shut his mouth, but not fast enough.

"You're what?"

"Nothing." Bobby stood and gathered his things together quickly, shoving his clothes into the locker. He started to leave, ignoring the fact that his left shoe was still untied and hanging barely on his foot every time he picked it up to step.

"No really, b-what? You're what?" Warren shut Bobby's locker for him and caught up, grabbing his shoulder before he could leave the room.

"Nothing."

"Christ Bobby, what is it? I won't tell anyone. I mean-"

"I can't even tell her I'm bisexual." Bobby stared at his left shoe and dropped to his knees to tie it, which, while putting his head dangerously close to Warren's knees and making him an easy target if Warren chose to beat the shit out of him- bash, it would be bash the shit out of him because he's bi, he realized, it did mean he didn't have to look at Warren face-to-face anymore or fight the urge to push Warren's jaw up. After a moment in which Bobby started to stand, to bolt, Warren dropped to his knees too and grabbed his shoulders.

"And you and John, you were.... lovers?"

"We didn't have sex. I mean, we were dating for all of three and a half weeks before his dad showed up. Look, you can't tell anyone, please. Please, Warren-" Bobby stood and tried to shrug Warren's hands off. They stayed, gripping tighter into his sweatshirt and the bare skin underneath because he had been too overheated to put on a T-Shirt.

"A lot of things make sense now."

"Warren, please-"

"I won't. Friends don't do that." Bobby heaved a sigh of relief and felt his heart calm down a little bit. Warren let go.

"You mean it?"

"Yeah, your secret is safe with me." Bobby nodded. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"I haven't told anyone but John. Ever. Hence the," Bobby lowered his voice, "dating thing." He clenched his fists, feeling the frost of his fingertips melt.

"Oh." Warren ran his fingers through his hair, still attempting to hold Bobby's gaze for more than a moment at a time. "Does he have anything to do with the bad day?"

"I, I still miss him. He left two and almost a half months ago and I still miss him and I feel stupid for doing it cause I mean, he's probably moved on. And it's not like we can still date or anything. The only way we can really talk is email. I mean, sometimes we have these weeks where it's like we're emailing back and forth every three minutes cause he hates instant messenger and then there are these long spaces, where nothing is really said, like now."

"Does anyone know about him... being..."

"With me or anything? No. He said his dad would kill him if he ever came out. He wrote an email a while ago saying that he pretty sure he was gay and not too far off on what would happen if his dad ever knew."

"Oh. So a long distance relationship..."

"I don't think I'm going out on a limb when I say, it's not really a possibility. Plus, going out on dates would be hell, the separate continents and everything."

"And do you know that he's dating anyone or seeing anyone over there?"

"He hasn't said. We tend to not really mention... us, cause I mean, it's not really something that would be easily resolved."

"I'd assume he wasn't then. And maybe he's still got a thing for you too. I mean, who wouldn't? You're a nice guy. Smart. Funny. Good looking."

"Warren, are... are you-" Warren closed the distance between them and kissed him. When they broke apart, Warren's lips were slightly blue and frosted over and his taste was swishing around the inside of Bobby's mouth.

Bobby said the first thing that came to mind. "Fuck." He bolted to his room and after making sure the door was locked and ignoring Warren's knocking, climbed under his covers. Maybe it wasn't too late to consider the 'stay in bed' option.


	12. Chapter 12

John pressed his lips together, rolling them on top of his bottom teeth. "Do I look effeminate?" Maybe that was it, that was the simple, rational answer, he thought briefly and then he forced the thought to disappear. Not here. Not here. Not when the mirror and the makeup were not in front of him.

"What? No. You look distinctly male." John looked down and smiled, embarrassed for a moment. He went back the showering and trying to think of nothing. "What are you doing?" John looked over; his fingers paused on his shoulder, pinching a piece of hair.

"I hate it when my hair falls out... sticks to me. Grosses me out." Mr. McFarland nodded; his eyebrows raised and watched him hold his fingers under the spray, letting the strands wash off. He turned to Mr. McFarland, twisting his body to face him from the chest up. "You done?"

Mr. McFarland nodded, jerking himself back into Now, and buttoned up his pants. John had noticed that after Mr. McFarland finished, he'd sometimes throw in extra money if John stretched out the shower as long as possible. The whole set up wasn't too bad and it wasn't like Mr. McFarland was moaning his name or anything when he came; much as John hated to admit it to himself, staying in the embrace in the hot water was better than going back to his house, feeling his hair slowly soak his pillow and knowing his father never noticed.

John shut off the water and stepped out, taking the towel offered to him and wrapping it around his waist. Mr. McFarland had to use the expensive detergent or just never washed his towels, because they all had that brand-new fluffiness. And the color changed every time, a thick dark brown, burnt- tan, gold-brown, and now a faded reddish tan that was just as thick as the others. Guess they all were to match the bathroom's red walls (not bright red which always made John think of electronic clocks, but a deep color, the kind that reminded him of dried flowers or broken in T- Shirts) the chrome décor, the soft-gray tile. "So do you date or anything?" he asked his back, as Mr. McFarland began to leave him and his clothes the privacy to dry off and change, to lean against the wall of his bedroom and fold the money.

He turned in the doorway. "Actually, I was going to ask you for a favor. A few friends and I are getting together tomorrow and I was wondering if you'd want to come. I'd pay you for your time."

"And I'd be your date?"

"Just so I don't look pathetic." John contemplated for a moment, mindful of the water slowly dripping down his body, off his legs and onto the rug, the way Mr. McFarland's eyes had started to follow the drops.

"I'll meet you here."

"About eight o'clock?" John nodded. "Dress would probably be a nice shirt, nice jeans or pants if you have them. It's only dinner and drinks. I'd pay for your meal and all that. Is 70 alright for your time?"

"Sounds fine." Mr. McFarland nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.

John showed up at the corner home ten minutes early, no longer able to wait and afraid that if he continued to play with his lighter he would end up burning part of his room or the package Bobby had sent him, the art book pushed deep between his mattress and the wooden slats above the drawers that made up the base of his bed, bumping corners with old and new sketchpads. He tongued his chin labret as he waited for Mr. McFarland to answer the door and self-consciously picked at the cuffs of his shirt. He was lucky it still fit, lucky that all those shirts he had bought two sizes too big tapered perfectly to his body now. Thank God it was dark and the neighbors couldn't (hopefully) see him. "John," Mr. McFarland smiled, "you look nice." John looked down automatically at a pair of jeans his father had bought him- the hems still unbroken, the cleaned sneakers, the black dress shirt and the red tee the peaked out from the bottom of the V formed by two rows of unfastened buttons. "Come in for a minute, I just need a second."

(later)

John leaned against the car window, watching the lights of Dover grow larger. "Wasn't that bad, huh?"

"No. Your friends were nice." His mouth still felt full of nicotine and alcohol, no one asking his age as he bummed cigarettes or Mr. McFarland bought him drinks. He had played his part well, hadn't said much. He didn't even have to hold his hand or anything, just sat next to him in the restaurant and in the bar, and ignored the leg brushing against his, the fingers tracing shapes on his thigh, that touched when he passed him bottles of beer. It was worth the money and free dinner, he guessed. "So are they all writers?"

"No. Tim works in advertising, Fiona is an art therapist, Matt does voice work in commercials and shit-"

"Yeah, thought he sounded familiar." Mr. McFarland looked over and nodded.

"Natalie does theater and gives work shops, and Daniel manages his father's hardware store. He's trying to open a sister store in Dover, actually."

"Oh." John rested his head on the window again.

"How'd you get that cut on your cheek?" John shrugged.

"Fight at school." The lights of Dover were around them now, as they drove into the downtown and began to head west, towards East Chestnut Terrace. "Do you mind if I smoke? Tim gave me the last of his pack. I mean, you could have one or whatever and I'll open the window-"

"Go ahead. And I'm fine, but thanks." John pulled out the crumpled package, and lit a cigarette, Mr. McFarland rolling down his window for him. The brief appearance of his flame added with the nicotine made his stomach unclench a little from the initial worry that came when anyone questioned his bruises. Not that any one really did anymore, most had just gave up on him, assuming he was the trademark bad kid or that he was clumsy as hell. Ellis occasionally asked about a particularly bad one, as would Mark and Rachel but even they were more or less numb to his half-assed stories. "Do you want me to drop you off at your house or-"

"I could just walk from the corner. Probably better that way." Mr. McFarland nodded and pulled into his driveway, John stepping out and absorbing the small flame into him before making the motions of crushing the cigarette under his heel.

"I'll see you John?" Mr. McFarland said as he handed the money over.

"Yeah. Thanks for dinner." John slipped the money into his pocket and walked home.

He sat on the floor of his room, leaning against his beg, flipping through the book Bobby had sent, slowly tracing his finger tips over the pictures of the sculptures. Taking a pencil that rolled under his desk, he traced the loops and swirls of glass, his mind etching out his own variations and ideas.

"What are you doing?" John jerked his head up and dropped the pencil into his lap, closing the book quickly. He stood, hearing the pencil roll off, palmed the book into his thigh with the flat of his hand, slowly shifting it to the back of his leg.

"Nothing. Reading a book for school." John's other palm rubbed against the lump in his pocket where his lighter was and John would give anything for the little ember of his cigarette again.

"Lemme see." John felt his shoulders drop and slowly he handed over the book.

"It's for English- it, it ties into one of the books were reading."

"Don't lie to me, St. John Allerdyce."

"I'm not- it does, I can bring you the book from school. Dead set-"

"Don't lie to me! That was your mother's game, remember?" His father was clenching the book tight now, between his hands, starting to bend the thin hard-back cover.

"Really-"

"I told you to stop with this art shit! It's stupid!" His father was ripping pages out of the book now and John reached forward to grab it out of his father's hands.

"Dad please, don't! It's not mine! You can't do that!"

"No, I make the rules, not you! I told you none of this crap! No more acting like a fucking queer! Art is for queers and rich people!" He pushed John back; he fell against his bed and sat there, frozen, watching his father destroy the book. "You will not waste your life on art! You will not! Think you're better than me? Is that it? You think you're better? Think you're going to university? Huh? You're fucking kidding yourself! Do you hear me?! No more art shit! Do you hear me?!"

"Yes." His father threw down the book, a few pages still barely holding on to the empty covers, fluttering to the floor like a moth weighed down with pins.

"Good. Clean this shit up. And if I ever see or hear about this art nonsense or that music crap, so help me God, you'll regret it." John nodded; his eyes not strayed from where his book had fallen to the wood. Slowly, after sitting there for some time, he got up and closed his door, hearing the TV on downstairs. He knelt in front of the torn pages and slowly gathered them into a pile. After checking again his father wasn't coming, he chose the best pieces and the pages that he had liked and seemed able to piece together, he glued them slowly, one by one into his sketchpad. He hid it in his book bag with the others dug deep from the center spot under his mattress, and threw the rest of the book and the ripped pieces of the glass sculptures away.

He opened his window wide and perched himself on the sill, dropping his legs over the side to hang against the house, and had another cigarette from the pack buried in his pocket, taking the tiny ember ball and letting it roll over his knuckles like a coin trick and form a very small sculpture of his own, a boy grinning, holding a snowball in one hand with no gloves or scarf or extra winter covering. He seemed to smile that everything would work out. The lump in John's stomach started to unclench as he felt the fire on the back of his hand, burning slightly the small hairs there.


	13. Chapter 13

Bobby skipped Friday's classes, like he had when John first left. The night before he had padded quietly down the kitchen at two, stocked up on an unopened bottle of juice, made some sandwiches; he grabbed bags of chips and some fruit because he felt guilty, with the email to his mother still unanswered and everything. With any luck, he'd be able to stay in his room until Monday morning, leaving only at night to get more supplies. A person could forget or at least refuse to deal with, a lot of things in three days.

"Bobby, it's Dr. Gray." Bobby got up to answer the knock.

"I wasn't feeling well, that's why I didn't go to classes today." She came in, holding a brown paper bag that smelled suspiciously like Chinese food. His mouth watered at the thought and then he realized he still had the remains of a turkey sandwich sitting on his desk, the Compose feature of his email was open and blankly staring around the room, and there were three empty soda cans stacked on top of one another on his desk, next to the sandwich. She chose not to notice and sat on his bed, still holding the bag.

"But you felt well enough that you didn't come down to the Infirmary." He started to explain, probably blow any semblance of credibility but she held out the bag and interrupted him. "Here. Your favorites, down to the cheese wontons. I assumed your absence was more along the lines of you having something on your mind and needing time to think." He nodded and placed the bag on his desk, than sat on John's bed, facing her. "You don't have to talk to me about it now but I'm more than willing to listen if you want to." He nodded and she waited a moment. "You'll also find that today's assignments are in there, so you should rescue them before they get greasy."

"Thank you." She smiled and he smiled back. It was hard not to smile with Professor Gray; she seemed genuine, all the time.

"You've had to deal with a lot recently, with John moving back with his father, increased work load, starting to look at colleges and consider your future, and I bet the strain of keeping an important and prominent part of your life from you family is starting to take its toll." He nodded again. "While Chinese food is in no way, an easier way to deal with the issues affecting you, I've found that food can be a comfort." Bobby smiled.

"Thanks." She reached over and patted his knee.

"Good luck. And enjoy the food. I hope you don't mind, but I did steal a fortune cookie. There's still two left for you."

"It's ok." She walked to the door and after she closed it behind her. He stood and went to the bag, pulling out a plastic bag of homework assignments and then taking out the cartons of Chinese food, steam rising off them as he placed them on his dresser. Going and digging through John's drawers, he found the plates and cups from last October when they were the only teenagers in the Mansion, everyone else somehow home or away on the same weekend, where they stayed in and watched DVDs on the laptop, leaving only to have snowball fights in the middle of the night on the front lawn.

Pulling out a fortune cookie he opened it and read, 'Absence sharpens love, but presence strengthens it.' For once the lucky numbers more than less matched his own- 13, 17, 27, 38 and 39. Contemplating as he crunched the cookie, he dug out another pair of chopsticks, and left the room, going to Warren's door and hesitated, listening to the French opera that played softly. He knocked and after a moment Warren answered. "Professor Gray picked me up some Chinese food and there's more than enough for one and I was wondering if you'd want some. We could talk." Warren nodded and stepped forward, closing his door behind him, Bobby stepping back half a step.

"That would be nice. Thank you." They walked back to Bobby's room and quietly split up the food. Bobby sat on John's bed and Warren sat on his. They ate for a few minutes, not speaking anything more than 'pass the duck sauce'.

"Why did you do it?" Warren looked up, and finished chewing, delicately resting his chopsticks on the edge of his plate. "I mean, I had just told you I had a thing for John and that we had been dating."

"I guess you don't find spontaneity attractive."

"Not when the person being spontaneous had just listened to me confess something huge and decides to use it for his own fucking gain." Warren flinched slightly at the profanity and changed his hold on the plate, so it balanced on his thighs, shifting his feet on the ground so the plate remained perfectly level and his posture straight. Bobby placed his on the bed next to him, crossing his legs Indian style.

"I, I'm attracted to you Bobby and on one level I was a little over- excited because I thought there was the possibility you might feel the same. Not right now, but at some point."

"I'm in love with John." Bobby stopped himself but again too late. Warren smiled softly.

"I've realized." Bobby's posture slunk as the truth of the words hit him. He was in love with John; it explained the jealousy and the way he kept climbing back into John's bed to sleep at night, the never ending preoccupation with John's emails and the way he would read each a dozen times in one sitting, no matter how short it was, the dreams where he woke up sweating, the sheets iced to his legs and groin. "Bobby, I'm sorry. I acted stupidly. And I understand if you would prefer not to forgive me but I'd hate to lose a good friend because of one stupid action. I care for you, no matter how misguided my method for showing that was."

"I... Christ Warren, why the hell do you have to be so well mannered? I feel like a Neanderthal." Warren smiled and picked up his wonton, breaking it into smaller pieces and then wiping his hands on his napkin. He picked up his chopsticks and ate in small quiet bites.

"Some habits die hard," he said when he finished, setting down his chopsticks again.

Bobby nodded and fiddled with his hands. "So I guess, we're friends? Provided, you don't try to kiss me again."

"It was that bad?"

"No, I mean um..."

"Bobby. Joking."

"Oh." Bobby smiled and Warren picked back up his chopsticks. Bobby followed suit, moving the plate back to his lap.

"So are you going to tell anyone?"

"What? About John?"

"That you're bisexual." Bobby shrugged, then shook his head. How would anyone bring that into the conversation? Oh by the way, Marie, part of the reason I wanted to break up was because I couldn't stop having wet dreams about my roommate. And Remy, when Iwas checking you out in the locker room last week, thank you for not noticing. And telling his parents? Hey Mom and Dad, guess what? I'm a bisexual mutant! They don't even have support groups for people like me yet, let alone for you!

"Have you told anyone... that... you're um..."

"Gay." Bobby nodded and focused back on his plate, feeling his cheeks turn red. "No. Well, I assume past lovers have caught on but my parents don't know."

"Friends?"

"Bobby, the people I have here are the first people I've ever met that I feel comfortable enough around to call my friends. You're the only person here who knows, yes."

"Oh." Bobby drank some of his soda; feeling his mouth temporarily damp, then go back to being dry. "How long have you known?"

"About the time puberty hit, I realized that my feelings towards the other boys in my dorm would not be considered heterosexual. Plus a few... rendezvous with other boys confirmed my feelings."

"And none of them threatened to tell about the wings?"

"The ones that would profit from black mailing me, or even knew of my family's status and weren't just strangers I met in clubs or around had to factor in the fact I had just as much blackmail on them, considering they had only found about my wings through sex with me; plus there were the trump cards of my father's lawyers and business associates." Bobby nodded and chugged what remained in his glass. "How did you find out?"

"When I was younger I, had crushes on guys and girls but I always assumed I was confusing friendship and crushes or it was just hormones. But after I found out what bisexuality was and started seriously falling for John... that kind of negated the hormones theory."

Warren nodded and finished eating, drinking the last of his soda. Balancing the cup on his plate, he bent down and placed it on the floor, to the side of his feet. "Why don't you want to tell anyone?"

"Because... I mean, I don't even get who I am completely and I'm gonna expect people to just get rid of the image they've had? I've been in this school since half way through the seventh grade Warren. I know some of the people here better than my family. How... how can I explain to them...."

"Who you truly are?" Bobby shrugged and shredded a stray water chestnut; digging his nails in and feeling it break into smaller and smaller parts. "I guess you have to have faith in yourself to know who you are and in other people to understand and accept you."

"Easy for you to say. I haven't exactly seen you going around talking guys with Kitty."

"No one has asked my sexual preference Bobby and if they did, I'd tell them."

"You didn't tell-"

"I showed you."

"That's not quite the same." Warren leaned forward and lifted the plate gently off of Bobby's lap, holding it steady. He dropped the water chestnut, and wiped his hands clean with the napkin. Warren waited until he placed that on the plate and moved it to sit on top of his, placing their chopsticks into a cup. "You could have warned me."

"How?"

Bobby shrugged. "Dunno. Would have been the well mannered thing to do." Warren laughed. "Besides, without John here I guess I don't have much of a reason to tell anyone. Well, I mean other than you but um. Crap." Warren laughed again.

"Perhaps some weekend you'd like to head into town with me? I'm fairly certain that my old ways of persuasion will be enough to get us into clubs, regardless of our ages."

"...old ways?" Warren rubbed his thumb and pointer finger together and Bobby's mind automatically made the sound, ch-ching. He shrugged. "Guess that'd be ok."

"Alright. It's a date, but not in the date sense." Bobby laughed.

"So I guess, I don't need to hide in my room for the rest of the weekend."

"I believe "Terminator3" is playing on HBO tonight. In two minutes," he said as he checked the clock, "if you'd like to go see it."

"Sounds cool." Bobby got up and started to gather up the cartons, tossing them into the brown bag. Warren took the dishes and walked into the bathroom, placing them in the sink and running the water over them. "I'll do those later," Bobby called, wadding the bag up the most he could and throwing it into the trash. Thinking for a moment, he iced the whole thing and then broke it into tiny pieces.

"Impressive."

"I'll make a lot of friends in college." Warren laughed and they headed to the living room.


	14. Chapter 14

"So y'know, what's it like fucking McFarland?" Ellis threw out the question during a lull in the screams. John pulled himself away from watching the last couple left, breathing heavily into the camera, begging each other to do something.

"What?" Ellis wasn't watching the movie anymore.

"Strewth John, I'm not a frigging asshole. I've seen you comin' out of his house late at night. You gonna tell me you was just watching the footy game?"

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up."

"He paying you or something? You a fucking whore now John? Is that what you learned to do when you went away?"

"Shut the hell up!" Ellis pushed his shoulder and John pushed him back, both hands, hard on the chest. Ellis fell back wards and rolled back up, pushed John.

"Tell me the god damn truth John!"

"Just shut up!" John swung and they fought like they had when John was eleven and his father had interrupted a sleepover. Not in strength or the number of punches (John had thrown the only one that night and then Ellis had pinned him on his floor, sitting on his chest until John gave in and told the whole truth for once) but what was at stake and where it could leave their friendship, depending upon who and how they won. Soon, John was no longer sure who was winning only that pretty soon somebody was going to knock over a lamp or something and he hoped to God Ellis gave up because John wasn't going to back down until after that lamp or something was broken. And then he would be screwed.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" His father yelled, pulling John off. "Huh!"

"I-"His father slapped him and backed him into the kitchen, pushing him so the edge of the counter pressed into the small of his back, a painful bite across his skin. "The last thing I need is his fucking parents calling here asking for money! What the hell is wrong with you! Huh!" His father held tight to John's wrist so he couldn't move away but was jerked about. Rather than trying to answer back John concentrated on breathing. Well, trying to breathe. "Well? What were you fighting about?"

"N-nothing. I'm sorry." His father let him slip to the floor, the handle of the pots and pans cabinet burrowing into a sore spot between his shoulder blades, perfectly where there was indentation of a belt buckle upon the bumps of his spine.

"You better be god damn sorry. If I ever see you fighting again-"His father kicked, John's ribs responding with a crunch and a pain like nails being hammered between the bones and wedging them apart. His father left, grabbing his jacket and slamming the door. It didn't catch in the lock but swung out again.

"John?" John kept his eyes closed and tried not to breathe. When his lungs began to burn to match his ribs, he snuck a little air into his mouth. Bad move, he realized as he felt his chest go through the motions of a heart attack, shifting the focal point from his heart back to his left side. "John, are you ok?" Ellis brushed the hair off his forehead; careful not to touch any bruises and John felt twinges of comfort across his skin. Ellis reached out and pushed the door so it was at least wedged in the frame.

"I can't stay here, Ellis." John tried to breathe again. "I can't do it! I gotta..."

"John, you have to go to a doctor or something. You have to go to the police. This... This isn't your dad slapping you around."

"Where am I going to go? Stay with you? Your parents hate me! Am I going to go live with my mum? Huh? You know where she is? Wanna tell me! Cause she hasn't exactly passed on that information!" John hated hysterics, and the fact he was starting to feel his voice change didn't help his mood. He hadn't had his sixteenth birthday for no reason.

"You have to go to a doctor though, John. I saw him hit you." Ellis continued to brush the hair off of John's forehead and was resting his other hand on John's thigh, the pressure creating what felt like a hot imprint on his skin from the heat of Ellis's touch, sending nerves scurrying and distracted from the pain points of his chest and bruised face.

"I can't go to a doctor Ellis. I... have to go." John lifted himself up, careful not to move his chest, to bend or breathe too much, feeling Ellis's hand fall off.

"Then where are you going?"

"There's a clinic in Melbourne. I can go there. I'll take the train in ok? Just go home Ellis. Take your god damn video and go home."

"No." Ellis grabbed John's elbow and John tried to shrug off his hand without twisting his chest or spine. Ow. Fucking glory, ow.

"What part of go home and take your-"

"No. I got you into this. I'll go with you."

"Ellis-"

"I'm going damn it. So suck it up." John forced half of a smile.

"Fine. Just. Let's go." They stood in the train station, John leaning gingerly against an advertisement, rubbing the toe of his black combat boot against the heel of the other foot, the rubber making a soft squeaky noise. Comforting almost.

"He's working nights?"

"Last day tonight. Seven until four. Tomorrow he's back to day shifts, eight to six. My guess is he finishes at four, goes and drinks for a few hours, switches to coffee and then handles some machinery." Ellis nodded, knowing it was probably stupid to say anything. "I shower. I don't have sex with him. I shower, he watches and pays. I need that money Ellis. I need to get the hell out of here." John wanted a cigarette.

"I could–"

"No." They got onto the train. "It's costs a lot to leave Ellis and I'm going to need to go far away. To stay away."

"Where?"

"Dunno. Maybe America again. Amsterdam. Not Australia." The train ride was silent, empty. John could only see a few people in the cars ahead. As they pulled into the station he said quietly, "And you know what? He doesn't touch me unless I say ok, he doesn't hit me and that's a hell of a lot better than other people. He at least acts like he gives a shit about me. Like he cares."

"Your dad, he has to care about you. He-"

"People don't have to do anything but breathe." They didn't wait long in the clinic. The doctor's hands were gentle, taking in the knowledge John's bruises had to offer, inspecting the X rays and showing them the cracks in two of his ribs, looking like a crooked line. When all was done and John's shirt was back on, she sat on a stool. John reached up and returned the stud to the cartilage of his right ear, then fiddled with his labret.

"Would you like to tell me how this happened?"

"I got in a fight.With him." John pointed to Ellis who nodded. "It was stupid."

"John, some of the bruises are a week or two old. Has someone been hitting you?"

"No." John tried to smirk, tried to be cocksure. It'd be easier to act as if the suggestion was crazy with a cigarette but other than the fact he didn't have cigarettes or the money to buy them, it was a doctor's office and those screamed 'smoking kills and disfigures'.

"Listen, if you'd give me your last name, or just tell me where you live, I can call authorities. Whoever is hurting you won't know you said anything. We can put you someplace safe John." She reached out as if to touch his knee. He shifted on the bed, crinkling the waxy paper, moved away. After her hand hung in the air for a moment, she straightened and he made himself stop touching the chin labret, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. Ellis was starting to give him those pointed glances, the ones that said 'stop it with the nervous twitch already- you'll blow it'.

And Ellis had never seen him with his lighter; it was probably a good thing that Bobby had worked to mostly break him of that habit. It took full throttle panic or anxiety to get him to pull out the lighter, because as Bobby had pointed out, if you don't want people to know you're a mutant, stop pulling a Statue of Liberty.

"No one is hitting me."

"John, I should report-"

"No, you shouldn't." He stood. "Thank you." Outside it was warmer, the end of summer approaching, but now a sense of a chill was in the air, even if there wasn't any true salt or frost in the wind. It reminded John of Bobby, and then New York falls. Bobby's favorite time of year, after Indian summer days where it was warm enough to have snowball fights. Those warn October days tended to top John's list too; you didn't need gloves which was great because when someone is teaching you how to make a snowball, gloves are awkward and you don't get to touch your roommate's hand and act as if it were an accident or part of the learning process.

"Lemme buy you something to eat?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You're never hungry. Just, please. We, I, we can talk." Ellis rested his arm on John's shoulders and John nodded because if he shrugged Ellis's arm would drop off and he didn't mind it there. Ellis tightened his arm slightly. "So, with... showering..." Ellis ran his finger on the top of his glass, pushing a drop of water. "Um, are you camp?"

John sighed and stared at his hands, folded on the table, then began to massage his right hand. "...yeah." The bones had never knit quite properly after his father had been through and it still hurt to make a decent fist so John guessed most of the time it was a rather good thing that he was a lefty. Another five percent of the population specialty there too. He was just ranking up conversation openers.

"Oh. Does, does your dad know?"

John forced a laugh. "Yeah Ellis, he's so happy his son is a queer that he wanted to, to get one of those rainbow flags for the window. Maybe one for the car too."

"OK, stupid question."

John paused. It felt as though everyone in the pub was listening, leaning in, waiting to hear what else he had to say. "There was one guy- when I was in America, I, I was staying at this school for a while and I met this guy, we, we got to be friends and... I think I'm still hung on him. And by all accounts, I shouldn't be but I am."

"What about Rachel?" John felt his shoulders drop a little. He leaned back as the barkeeper came with their food- a burger for Ellis and strawberry swirl ice cream for him. Bobby's habits seemed to keep coming back and making their way under his skin, pulling his strings so that he acted on them, if only because they brought the comforting and stinging memories of Bobby.

"I love Rachel, I just... I did then but I guess I knew that I couldn't love her not like that. And we never, had sex or anything. I've always, I've never really been into girls, not when we were younger like, or anything and I guess... Do you think she knows?"

"No. I mean maybe she's guessed but she hasn't said anything to me. I know she and Marc know about your Dad but-"

"You told!"

"John, they're not blind! They've seen your bruises genius. And I wouldn't, even if they hadn't known."

"Oh. Thanks."

"How'd the school find out about you? You tell them?"

"No, I uh, never told 'm the town, or the area of Australia I was from. And, I never gave 'm my last name-" 'not on anything,' John was ready to say and then remembered his last Math quiz. Oh crap. He hadn't studied and panicked and... crap.

"John, something wrong?" John shook his head and ate some more of his ice cream. Can't change the past, only regret what you did or didn't do. Ellis ate a bit more. "I've never kissed a guy."

"What?" John felt some of the ice cream dribble out onto his chin. "Is someone asking you to?" He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"No, I just," Ellis swallowed his mouthful of food, "I never have," he said simply.

"Oh."

"How long you been showering for him?"

"Almost two months; started a little while after I started working at Scotty's. Pays me 40 for like almost an hour. With that and some I've saved up so far I've got little more than 900, but I need more. And my dad knows how much I make with my paycheck and how much I put in the bank and spend on groceries or clothes or stuff and all that."

"I could loan-"

"No. OK? No. I just, this is the warning alright? Don't tell Marc and Rachel but this is the warning. I got to leave soon and last time, I couldn't... I didn't..."

"You'll say goodbye this time, right?"

"If I can. And if I can't, take this for it than. I'd only have to run for what? Less than two years? That's nothing."

"It is if you don't know when you're friend's coming back." John looked up and started to say sorry. Ellis moved his hand to rest on John's. "I get it. Alright? We all do. ...Look, do you think, maybe before you go... I mean... I know you got this bloke back in America but..." Ellis was chewing on his lip; fast and furious and pretty soon he'd draw blood.

"You've never kissed a guy. Oh." John drank the last of his soda. His mouth still felt dry. "I guess... alright. Not now though I mean..." Ellis didn't move his hand away and John didn't take his out from under it. It felt warm there, comfortable. Touch. Like one of those stupid lectures they gave back in primary school- good touch versus bad touch.

When your father beats the shit out of you, that's a bad touch. When your best friend comes to you with his sexual confusion even though you _know_ he should end up with Rachel and puts his hand on your hand, like he wants to keep you anchored, that's a good touch. And showering for the neighbor down the street, that's just you trying to forget the boy you left behind or the father waiting for you back in your house. That doesn't count.

"Thanks." John shrugged.

"What friends are for and all that."

"Yeah." Ellis paid and they walked out into the street, heading for the train station. "So... do you think maybe it's a bit off that you came back on Australia Day?" John looked at him blankly. "January 26th? First day off from school every fall term? Perhaps you remember spending the previous one going to see that Violent Femmes cover band? You talked us-"

"I remember, you bastard."

"Marc pointed it out. Thought I'd mention it to you, Sexy." John laughed and threw an arm on Ellis's shoulders, because why the hell not? Ellis wrapped his around his waist. "You wanna just head to my house? Wag school? My mom and dad will be gone by the time we get there and my brothers won't notice before they leave. So, you wanna? Brody misses you and we can dye your hair pink again."

"Wouldn't be the same without Rachel messing up the amount of water to put in the mix- too great of a chance we'll fuck it up and make it red."

"Lord knows that wasn't the initial plan."

John woke up later that morning, sprawled on Ellis's bed, his hand knocking against the empty cereal bowls on the floor, then rubbing his palm into Brody's short coat, along his spine. The second horror movie credits rolling slowly; they had passed out somewhere between the bad girl and the skeptical guy getting slaughtered. How Ellis could eat twice in two hours and then sleep was beyond John (always had been), but it was Ellis' secret stash of sugar so he stuck to the old mentality of 'let 'm eat how much as he wants and when he pukes it's not your fault'.

He turned his head, looking out to see the sun slitted between the closed window blinds. He judged it to be maybe about 11, and he'd always been pretty good at judging time when it came to Australia. He looked down and noticed his and Ellis' forearms were wrapped together, like a double helix, once around, hands not touching. He didn't remember anything that would lead to that, so they must have made the subconscious decision to join in sleep.

Maybe Ellis was waiting for his kiss from a guy and this was how he asked. Maybe John was supposed to wake him up and show him exactly was homosexuality was. John was supposed to do a lot of things and screw them all. That was what later was for. He looked down and watched Brody climb up on top of his knees, curling up and looking at him. He reached out his hand and Brody inched closer, ending up on his stomach; John scratched his head for a moment, watching Brody's eyes close.

Rubbing the lighter in his pants and thinking for a moment of ice freezing the wheel shut and making him listen, taming him and making him feel safe as the cold would embrace him; thinking of winters where it snowed, he turned his head to the side and fell asleep.

"That bruise looks painful. How'd you get it?" Mr. McFarland went to touch John's wrist, to feel the dull blue-black mark, tingeing on yellow. He slid his hand into his pocket.

"I fell."

"How could you fall-"

"Hard. I fell hard.Do you want me to shower or not?"

"By all means."

In the shower, John moved slowly. He had been standing for a minute or two without moving, just staring into space with his arms crossed over his chest before Mr. McFarland said something. He shook his head and mumbled 'sorry' and tried to concentrate. Turning, he grabbed a bottle, half-heartedly rubbing it into his scalp.

He had only rinsed the shampoo out when Mr. McFarland knocked on the shower door. "C'mon, you can get out." John turned off the water and wrapped the towel around himself. "Here, go change in the guest room." He left the bathroom with Mr. McFarland staring at the shower stall, mirroring John's own distraction.

He got changed slowly. This hadn't happened before, what was up now? Maybe it was the end of the deal or maybe Mr. McFarland wanted something more now? "Yeah, I'm done. Come in," he said and slid back to sit on the bed, glancing around the room, painted a pale green, only darker, pastel olive in the corners.

"You alright?" Mr. McFarland wrapped his hand around John's kneecap, easily sliding it in place. John tried to ignore the warm hand because he knew if he didn't, he would realize that he didn't mind much the fact that it was there, that it actually felt a little nice.

"Yeah. Just, distracted."

Mr. McFarland nodded. "Does your father hit you?"

"What? No. No, I fall a lot." John swallowed, and made his eyes at least meet Mr. McFarland's face, even if he couldn't manage the eyes.

"John, I've been watching you for almost two months. I haven't seen you fall yet." John shrugged. "Does he?"

"No."

"So that black eye-"

"I fell. I tripped this morning getting out bed and fell, and hit my eye on the door knob."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Mr. McFarland cut himself off from what he was about to say, or think. "Here." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded bills. John pushed his hand back.

"No." Mr. McFarland started to protest, saying that John had indeed showered and thus fulfilled his end of the deal. "No. You. You didn't get off and considering that's what you get for the money, I didn't earn it. I. I don't want it." John went to say more but yawned.

"Do you want to spend the night here?" John stared at him. Suddenly the kneecap thing took on Biblical significance. Sodom and Gomorrah significance. "Not to sleep with me. You look tired. You can sleep here. I'll wake you up in the morning."

"I, uh, I shouldn't. Thanks though." John wanted to. That was strange. But part of him, a good deal of him, felt better about staying the night in this bed then climbing back through the window to his own.

"Grab a couple of hours. Honest, wake you up when you need to go." John licked his lips and sighed, shrugged. Mr. McFarland squeezed and got up. "Got some stuff that might make your eye feel better, if you want to try it." John shrugged and started to take off his shoes, feeling the vibration through the floor as Mr. McFarland left the room.

On all accounts, he should at least be mildly worried that he'd wake up, tied and gagged in the back of Mr. McFarland's car, heading for the bush. At least it'd be a change of scenery. His socks were off and he crossed his legs, burrowing his feet into the cover of the bed. Mr. McFarland came back in, carrying a small tube in his hands. "Here," he said. "Close your eyes." John did and felt Mr. McFarland rubbing something gel-like that was blessedly cool under his eye, along the slightly rough bone of his eye socket. He kept them closed as he felt his hand being taken up and the same gel being rubbed into the underside of his wrist, hands removing his watch, pushing up his shirtsleeve, and rubbing the bruise that leaked into the indention left behind. He opened his eyes hesitantly; afraid the gel would find its way into his eyes and Mr. McFarland was staring at him, still holding his hand lightly, his thumb pushing gently down the center of John's right palm, firmly. "A few hours?" John didn't try to pull his hand away.

"Yeah. I guess. What time is it?"

"Nearly midnight."

"Wake me up by five?" Mr. McFarland nodded. "Thanks." He smiled and got up, capping the tube.

"I put your watch there," he pointed to the windowsill.

"Thanks. Thank you for whatever that stuff was."

"Aloe vera. Good huh?"

"Ace." John gave a small smile. Mr. McFarland nodded and closed the door behind him, hitting the light. John crawled under the covers, careful not to let his wrist or the side of his face touch the sheets, afraid the gel would stain. It still wet but soothed the thump of the bruise so he didn't look for a tissue to wipe it off. If he had been thinking, he would have taken off the longer sleeved shirt and just slept in the T Shirt he had layered on top. He woke up once, a few hours later when the door opened, creaking. He smiled slightly when he heard Mr. McFarland curse softly at the noise, but didn't move, waiting. He felt the covers being tucked in more firmly around his waist, and then one finger touching gently his cheekbone, wiping away the last of the gel that had smeared on to John's face and (he was fairly sure) into his hair. He flinched slightly, automatically and the finger drew away, and left the room.

He was sure Mr. McFarland didn't think he was awake, so why would he leave? For that matter, why had he come in? Rubbing his thumb over and over the tendon where Mr. McFarland's thumb had touched, John fell asleep. "Hey. Hey, wake up." John groggily sat up, his eyes opening slowly. Mr. McFarland smiled. "Your hair always look like that in the morning?" John felt his hair and cursed softly. The gel had rubbed in and spiked it while he slept. He felt like he was 14 again. "You don't do that anymore. Spike your hair." Mr. McFarland reached out a hand and rubbed a peroxide blond piece between thumb and forefinger so it broke apart, falling upon John's forehead, just into his eyes.

"Yeah. I figured it was time to hit puberty and all that." He got a laugh and smiled. Pushing the blankets back he leaned down reaching for a sock and felt his shirts ride up. He sat up again, but not quickly enough.

"You fall for that bruise too?"

"Yeah, I did." John put on his socks and shoes and stood. Mr. McFarland walked him to the back door.

"You sure you're not hungry?" John nodded. "Yeah?"

"Thanks though. And thanks. For the other stuff."

"Night John." John nodded and left, going through the yards to his own back door, unlocked for some reason, climbing the stairs to his room, to crawl into his bed and sleep some more before he had to get up for school. He didn't think his father was home.

"John?" John flinched and jerked around. Mr. McFarland was leaning in the doorway of his room, watching him.

"What? What the hell are you doing here?"

"I came to check on you. Make sure you're ok. Are you? I knocked. Your back door was unlocked."

"Yeah fine. You should get out of here." Mr. McFarland took a step inside, looking around the gray room, the light green bedspread piled on the floor, his white sheets. John turned and pulled it onto his bed, straightening and tucking corners, throwing his pillow on. "I mean," he said in the direction of the window, his face turned slightly. "I don't know when my dad is getting home."

"You, mean from work?"

"No. He wasn't here this morning, ok?" John turned to face Mr. McFarland, who was looking at John's bookshelf, running a hand along the spines of the DVDs he had there, then reaching up to touch the comics, the paper back books. The hardcover Bible John hadn't touched in years, and not just because it was in Dutch.

"Strange collection."

"It's my friends. Ellis, he likes horror movies and my friend Rachel likes foreign films that always see to have some kind of sexual repression theme and my friend Marc likes black and white, film noir. And they all want me to take their side so they give me 'm. .OK?"

"What kind do you like?"

"Dramas, I guess. I don't like comedies really, or romantic crap. If a movie has some one-liners, or is sarcastic, then that's fine, I mean, Monty Python is ok every now and then or like '24 Hour Party People' or 'Chasing Amy' but..." He faded.

"Where would your father be?" Mr. McFarland turned back to him.

"I don't know. Passed out in his car. Maybe he went to work. He's done drunk before."

"You're not worried?"

"Yeah I'm worried but he's done it before and he's been ok then."

"He has?" John broke the eye contact, staring at his bare feet, the shredded bottoms of his jeans.

"He's an alcoholic. ...I think always has been. He and my mom used to spend the weekends drinking." John tried to make his eyes say, 'ok, drop it now.' He crossed his arms, stretching the black wife beater across his chest as the fabric caught on his watch. "Don't touch those!" John moved over to the dresser, picking up the small brown pill bottle and shutting them into a drawer. "If my dad... he'd kill me if he knew I was taking them."

"Sleeping pills?"

"He thinks... he doesn't believe in pills. I have to hide aspirin. Thinks they're weak, that people should solve their own problems but... I can't sleep." Mr. McFarland nodded and walked softly to look at John's computer screen, his collection of empty glasses that he had to wash.

"John, if you need a place to stay... I... I have the guest room. That could be yours."

"I, I can't. Everybody, he's the only family I got. Everybody else leaves, even me. I can't leave, not unless it's permanent, and living with you... I don't think it would be, could be. It'd be too close..." Mr. McFarland nodded.

"What are you working on?"

"Just something for school. Reading a book."

"What book?" John shrugged but knew he was still being stared at, still waited on.

"Philip Larkin. 'High Windows'."

"You read poetry?"

"Yeah, sometimes, ok? I needed a book and I would have read a comic book but I couldn't. And I couldn't find any decent novels and this wasn't that bad."

"No, he's, he's good."

"Look, if my dad is at work, he's probably leaving early cause he's probably got a wicked hangover and if he is in his car, I don't know what time he's coming home. You've got to leave." Mr. McFarland started to say something. "No! There's no way I could explain this to him- he gets... even when my friends are over, if they're guys and..."

"Alright. You're ok?" John nodded. "This isn't the kind of room I thought you'd have."

"What do you mean?"

"You kind of have this slow burning vibe, like anger or something and I thought your room would have that."

"Crappy death metal band posters and stuff? Bad plastic punk? Posters at all?" Mr. McFarland smiled and nodded, turning and walking into the hall, John following, glancing at some of the framed photographs and signs from concerts, clubs lining his walls. "Violent Femmes," he said as they walked down the stairs to the door.

"Yeah? Wouldn't have put you two together. But that was like my childhood, that first record."

"Old huh?"

"29, John. Real funny." John smiled. Mr. McFarland turned. "Right, get the pot shots in. Good John."

"The Weakerthans?" Mr. McFarland shook his head.

"This is Death Cab for Cutie, right?" John nodded. His stereo was playing them. "I'll see you John." John nodded.

"Sorry about, but, thanks for asking." Mr. McFarland nodded and left. John watched him walk down the front steps to the sidewalk and shut the door behind him. He trudged back up to his room, touching his surf board for a moment, skimming his fingers along the keyboard, then falling on to his freshly made bed and buried his head in the pillow. He waited for his dad to come home.


	15. Chapter 15

Bobby fidgeted in his seat, the seatbelt tightening around his middle and neck. Warren reached over and flicked on the defroster. "Bobby, this isn't exactly adding to the safety of traveling with a new driver." He flexed his hands to get the cold-induced stiffness out before placing them back on the steering wheel.

"Sorry." Bobby blushed and tried to relax, his hands smoothing out the legs of his jeans, over and over again, calming himself with the feel of the denim under his palms. It's just a bar and you're only six years under age. Just a bar, and it's only a gay bar. It's only a bar and if Professor Xavier or Summers or Gray or Munroe or hell, Logan finds out you were there you'll only be in all kinds of hellish shit. Only a bar. Just relax- it'll be fun.

"Have you been to clubs before?"

"I went to a bar once with John. But, no." He blushed more.

"Relax. It's no big deal. Just, watch whom you talk to and what you drink. If you do drink. I mean, you don't have to or anything- I doubt anyone will notice. But-"

"Warren, I've drank before. And for the record, had marijuana. I'm ok, more than ok, on that bit." Warren blushed now. Bobby remembered Scott's wine coolers, remembered sneaking into a bar a year ago last October when he was fourteen and the way John had managed to order them drinks not once, but twice without getting carded, how the whole walk back they were brushing against each other and not mentioning it, how they pissed in the woods together and talked the whole time about six thousand different things. That had been more or less the moment Bobby had realized what he really felt. And smoking with John. Especially smoking with John.

"Sorry."

"'S ok." They drove silently the rest of the way into Graham City- it was a misleading name for a town only seven or eight miles in diameter but it had a downtown which Bobby guessed, led to the name. Or maybe it had been named back when having a paved street defined you as a city, or at least a wealthy town and that's why it was Graham City; they were the first to lay down cobblestones or-

"Bobby? We're here." As they walked to the club, Bobby kept twisting his hands together. "Calm down. You look nice."

"So do you." Warren, for once, didn't look prep school, wearing black pants and a dress shirt. Bobby had stuck to jeans and a silky short-sleeved shirt Warren had loaned him. It was pretty much his every day wardrobe, just more expensive and with a different feel across his skin that probably made him look or older or rich. Both were always nice advantages when it came to getting into places underage, Warren had told him.

(later)

Bobby was leaning against the wall and waiting to work up the nerve to either A- leave, B- ask the bartender for a Shirley Temple because the look on his face would probably be worth the past uncomfortable hour, or C- ask Warren to dance because he knew that was the proper thing to do. The only problems he could think of were A- he didn't have the keys and calling Logan to ask him to come and pick him up from a gay bar would result in about three new levels of hell. Not to mention it'd be awkward. B- to ask the bartender he would have to cut across the dance floor at some point and as he had spent the past forty-five minutes training his eyes on a small spot on the opposite wall so he'd stop staring at all the... well... the gayness. That would put all that hard work to waste and he didn't want his ass kicked by anyone for staring, thank you. And C- to ask Warren to dance would lead to the conclusion that he could not dance, he could not sway gracefully to a beat, and he would still have to cross the dance floor to interrupt Warren's very intimate conversation with another guy.

"You know, every guy here has been where you're standing now." A young man leaned against the wall next to him. He didn't look like John, which was good. For one, there was noting stylish about John's the-right-side-of-tangled hair, and two, John didn't wear ripped mesh shirts that rode up on his stomach exposing- well, John didn't wear mesh. So maybe this meant that Bobby didn't run the risk of spending the night staring at him, comparing him and unable to formulate polite conversation. Part of Bobby went a little happy (and a little nervous) at the thought of experiencing the normal teenage hormonal bliss of a random hookup.

"Hope they were all wearing condoms." The man laughed and held out his hand. Three, John didn't shake hands.

"Lucas."

"Bobby."

"Nice to meet you. And trust me, everyone relaxes at some point. Took me three hours before I worked up the courage to talk to someone."

"Been here an hour, I guess. Can't read my watch real well, with the lighting and everything."

"Well, in honor of you beating my record, can I buy you a drink?" Bobby shrugged and followed him to the bar, catching Warren's eye and his 'oh thank you sweet Jesus, Bobby is going to finally get laid' look. He glared and Warren smiled, and then went back to talking. "Beer ok? Keep it simple and all that?"

"Fine." Bobby drank his slowly as they sat at the bar. Tempted as he was to rush the whole thing, to prove that yes, he was definitely of the legal age to drink alcohol, and yes, he had had alcohol before, he decided it was better not to risk finding out what this place's version of a wet T-Shirt contest was because of inebriation.

"So do you dance?" Bobby blushed and shook his head. "Why not?"

"I can't. Asking me to dance is kind of asking to carry around a dead elephant or something."

"C'mon... You don't look like you weight three tons." Lucas grabbed his hand, pulling him up. "I'll show you how. It's not like anyone's watching." Warren is, Bobby wanted to say but decided on,

"But our drinks-"

"I'll buy you another." It didn't take very long for Bobby to realize that junior high semi-formals (the last time he had danced in public) and this place had very little in common. Dancing here was more along the lines of trying to climb into your partner's pants by osmosis, a far cry from the three-foot gap with his last dancer partner, Lindsey Megan under the watchful eye of Mrs. Margaret and her cascading arm fat. He also realized that the chances of Warren being able to see him through the seething mass of people were pretty slim and his confidence boosted a tiny bit.

All in all, it wasn't that bad until Bobby realized his pants were no longer loose on his body. He blushed and took a half-step back. "I'm..." more blushing, more shoving his hands into his pockets, "sorry. I-"Lucas stepped back into his personal space and pulled his hands from his pockets, intertwining his fingers. He smiled.

"Look, most of the guys here have erections," he inched closer, pushing his groin into Bobby's and letting go with one hand to place it in Bobby's back pocket and squeeze his ass. "It's no big deal. And if you don't think you wanna keep dancing, there's a bathroom over there," he pointed, "and I could help you out, if you'd like," he whispered into Bobby's ear, the heat tickling the skin. Bobby really hoped this wasn't where Lucas licked him or anything cause that might be weird.

Bobby blushed and his mouth dropped, unsure exactly what to do or say. "Uh, I..." He concentrated very hard on not dropping the temperature of the club, as he felt his body go cooler.

"Your hands are cold."

"I...." Lucas laughed and pulled.

"C'mon." And Bobby went, still concentrating on not turning the whole place into a giant ice cube tray as he was led to the bathroom and into one of the stalls.

Bobby emerged slightly in shock, and fighting the urge to wash his hands. Lucas walked behind him, his arm wrapped around Bobby's waist, a hand dipped into the back of his jeans. "How about the other drink?" Bobby must have nodded because Lucas steered him in the direction of the bar, ordering both another beer. "Wasn't that bad huh?"

"Uh...no, I mean..."

"You want to go somewhere? I have an apartment near by if you'd like; my car is parked right outside." Lucas was gradually dipping his fingers farther into the back of Bobby's boxers, ignoring the public setting and slowly tracing the top of his ass.

"I shouldn't. Have a friend here." Bobby was concentrating on not freezing the beer bottle or his hands to the bar because that would slightly destroy the 'average teenage hook-up' theme that had so far been the premise of the evening.

"Tell him you're leaving." Lucas drank the rest of his beer, dipping his fingers lower and lower, twisting on his stool so he was facing Bobby, using his free hand now to tip toe up Bobby's leg, aiming for his crotch. For some reason, Bobby had the feeling that 'unless you want to get your hand turned into a block of ice, don't try and grope me right now' was probably not the most tactful thing to say at the moment. He stepped off his stool, feeling Lucas's hands detangle.

"Just, uh, just a minute." He went over to Warren and tapped on his shoulder.

"Bobby! Hey, how's-"

"We need to go."

"What?"

"Now is a great time, thanks." He pulled at Warren's arm, dragging them out on the street. They power walked the next two blocks before Bobby slowed down and let go of Warren's arm, leaning against an office building, Warren shivering slightly in the late March night.

"Bobby." He kept his eyes focused on the street lamp. "There's frost on my sleeves and your hands are icing themselves to the bricks." Bobby looked down and stepped forward, hearing a slight crackle as he pulled away from the wall. "Are you ok? You look like you're in shock."

"Some strange guy just gave me a blow job in the bathroom. I didn't ask him to; he just did."

"Wow, Bobby... congrats?"

"I just... I... kinda wasn't expecting that."

"Oh. Good surprise?"

"Not really. The whole time, I kept thinking of John."

"Christ man..." Warren put his arm on Bobby's shoulders as they started walking to the car. "You got it bad."

"Yeah... I- I guess so."

"You used a condom right?"

"Yeah he had one." They climbed into the car and didn't talk for a while. "You think it was rude of me?"

"What?"

"Well, he, Lucas, the guy? He wanted me to go back to his house or whatever with him and I kinda ran away to drag you out and leave."

Warren laughed. "You probably would have iced him and if he was the kind of guy who gave you a blow job in a bathroom after talking to you for ten minutes, I doubt he's gonna think it was rude." Bobby nodded, feeling himself start to slowly unwind as they drove into the Mansion's garage. They sat there, Warren letting the car idle. "And it probably was safer for you to leave too. Strange guys and Mathew Shepard and all that."

"Yeah."

"John's lucky."

"What?" Warren patted his knee and started to unbutton his shirt, his wings peaking out.

"These get uncomfortable after a while; the shirts start to ride up and muss up the feathers." Bobby smiled and Warren shut off the engine. "So, in honor of loose sex and all that you only live once junk, want to split some Ben and Jerry's and an Arnold movie?"

Bobby shrugged. "K." Still a little confused about what had exactly transpired that night, he followed Warren to the kitchen. On the bright side, this did clarify more or less the 'into guys' agenda, and could be really great Truth or Dare fodder next time Marie asked him if he had even had oral sex in a gay bar.


	16. Chapter 16

John went and got the mail, ignoring the weekend assignments he had to do. He pulled out a small brown envelope, no postmark, no return address. It felt heavy and was addressed to him. It said 'John' on it in handwriting that definitely wasn't Ellis's, or Rachel's, Marc's or Bobby's. Dropping the bills and the junk mail on the kitchen table he took the envelope up to his room and opened it carefully.

Reaching in he pulled out a few thin CD cases, with burned CDs inside and a paper back book with the title "Void of Course". Shaking the envelope, a note finally fell out, handwritten on computer paper.

'Some CDs I thought you might like, as per our conversation last week. I wrote the track lists on the cases. Figured you might be into Jim Carroll- seems your style- especially 'Now She's Gone' and 'Jukebox'. Don't mention it.

McFarland'

John flipped the cases over and read the names of the bands- Alkaline Trio. Nick Drake. Josh Rouse. The Postal Service- he knew that one, but hadn't bothered to get the CD yet. Looks like he didn't have to now. The Ramones. Great. McFarland was fucking turning into Bobby. Taking the Postal Service CD, he put it into his stereo and ripped up the envelope and the note, making sure no one would be able to put the words back together and figure out whom it was from. He lay down on his bed and opened the book.

John banged on the door. Not too loud, but loud enough to make everything sound urgent. It was. Mr. McFarland answered, looked surprised. "John? What are- what happened to you? Come inside, are you alright?" Mr. McFarland moved a hand to touch John's lip, the right corner torn in a backwards 'c'. John moved his face away before he could really touch him, the edges of his fingernails tracing his bruised cheekbone.

"How much will you pay to fuck me?"

"Wh-"

"How much will you pay?" John twisted his fingers through his hair for a moment, faking as if he were straightening out the rain soaked bangs. Every time he dyed it he couldn't get his hands off it for a while; it took time to adjust to the new hue. Bright red. Lola red. Fuck me for money because I don't give a shit any more red. I need to leave this town before my father tries to fuck me red. I just got groped and beaten by my father again and there's school tomorrow and it's not like I just skip for the rest of the week red. I'm tired of lying to my friends even if they know the truth red. Just unbuckle your goddamn pants before I do something really stupid red.

"What happened?" I dyed my hair.

"I got into a fight at school."

"It's nearly eight o'clock John, how-"

"I was out walking, I got jumped by some fuckers from school. I have to get out of this town! How much will you pay to fuck me?" John hated that he sounded tearful on the last bit. That sucked.

"I- are you hungry? I was, I was going to eat. Do..."

"I'm not hungry! OK... I..."

"Look, come upstairs, alright? The shades aren't all down." They went up the back stairs, over the basement or cellar or whatever, guessed John. He was trying to keep all thoughts, all emotions at bay and it was working a little bit. He concentrated on keeping his mind blank, within the proper side of reason. They sat on the guest bed, John digging his fingers in the edge of the mattress, biting the inside of his cheek and gripping the cover hard enough to hurt his joints and make them feel like they were sticking as his blood tightened. He tried to time his breath to the beating of rain drops. "Why..."

"Just... will you do it? If you're watching me shower and getting off, that must mean you're attracted to me on some level, so... "

"But why?"

"I have to get out of this place. I can't, I can't do it anymore, I... And I need money to leave." Mr. McFarland started to say something and then stopped. John didn't listen, staring at Mr. McFarland's hands, his thumbs.

He turned and kissed him, moving his hands so he had him cornered between his arms. "John-" started Mr. McFarland, but John just opened his mouth and kissed back, watching his eyes. Applying pressure with his upper body he leaned into him and pushed him down slowly, moving his legs awkwardly to drape on top of Mr. McFarland and over the side of the bed. Not sure what to do with the hand that wasn't supporting his weight so he didn't rest on his chest he moved it down Mr. McFarland's torso slowly, sliding his fingers between the side of his hip and the silk fabric of his boxers.

Mr. McFarland was kissing him back now, fully and moving his hands on John's back, sliding them under his T Shirt, tracing his shoulder blades with the tips of his fingers, the bottom of his neck and John remembered his mother's back rubs, her cool light hands pressing into his skin leaving gentle fingerprints behind, and then Mr. McFarland's hands slid to hold onto John's sides. He retreated into his own mouth, flinched from the pressure on his chest, closing his eyes. He opened them and kissed Mr. McFarland again, sliding his fingers against his hip still, sliding against the silk and foreign skin, the top of hair. Mr. McFarland rubbed his hands against John's torso, up his rib cage to his breastbone. John flinched again, not breaking eye contact though.

Mr. McFarland slowly pulled his head to the side, dropping his hands to the bed. "John". John started to kiss his jawbone, tracing down to his neck. "John. Stop. Ge'roff." John sat up, rolling off him, wincing where his ribs pressed against Mr. McFarland's, sitting on the edge of the bed again.

"What? Do, do you want to be on top?"

"John, you're flinching."

"It's nothing. My ribs, ok?Look, do you want-"

Mr. McFarland sighed. "Lie down alright?" John did, on the edge and then sliding over as Mr. McFarland moved, their arms and legs touching but both lying flat. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah." They paused, waiting.

"Do you want to stay here tonight? This bed?"

John exhaled through his nose and licked his lips. Closing his eyes, "yeah." I'm afraid to go home and I will never admit that to anyone but myself. Because the minute I do, I'll say too much.

"Right. You hungry?"

"A little."

"I was making dinner when you came. It's, it's like this taco mix."

"Like..."

"Turkey and beef, um, fresh citronella, peppers, sour cream, cheese, tomatoes, some seasoning, mushrooms. You put it on tortillas."

"Kinda like chili?"

"Thinner. And without the beans. They'd mess up the taste. You want some? Or I can make you a sandwich or something, or like a pizza-"

"Your taco thing sounds good."

"Right." Mr. McFarland sat up and sliding over John, went to leave. Hesitating, John got up and followed. Dinner was a mainly silent affair, as John ate four of the tortillas, feeling them sit in his stomach, warm. He felt a little sick too; he hadn't eaten this much since Bobby's last shipment of Krimpets a week ago. "You sure you're alright?"

"Yeah. Fine." Mr. McFarland sighed through his nose, quietly and rubbed face against the palm of his hand, resting his elbow on the table. "You know your, uh, aloe vera stuff? Do you think I could, um, use some?"

"On your ribs?" John nodded, not looking anywhere but the Spanish tile. "Yeah, come on. I'll grab a bandage so it doesn't it get on your shirt or anything." John started to reach for Mr. McFarland's bowl, to clear the table but his hand was grabbed, and then dropped. "Leave 'm. I can get them later."

"Thanks." They went up the front stairs this time. It was dark enough that a neighbor would have to press their face against the glass to see them moving in the dusky house. John waited outside Mr. McFarland's bathroom door, watching the man move, and then looking at tile. Not really looking, because there had been enough showers to do that but looking for the sake of having something inanimate to rest his eyes on, listening to Mr. McFarland fossick through the cupboard. He followed him to the guest room, and after hesitating a beat, removed his shirt.

Mr. McFarland's mouth visibly dropped, even though the light was set on dimmers. It was enough to see the pattern of the bruises and to distinguish this light from the darkness outside, and dark enough that John didn't feel obligated to meet Mr. McFarland's eyes. He sat down, bringing his legs up to cross, waiting. Mr. McFarland sat on the edge of the bed and began to gently rub the gel into John's skin, stopping briefly every time John flinched or hissed, which was often. "It never looks this bad..." trailed Mr. McFarland. 'Through the shower glass,' thought John for him. That's cause it's gotten worse.

Perhaps with a lotion or under different circumstances John would have thought the whole thing vaguely erotic as Mr. McFarland's warm hands moved against his nipples, over his bellybutton. He kept thinking of his mother rubbing sun block over him at the beach, Ellis holding his hand or Bobby's cold, slightly high, arm resting on John's shoulders. Mr. McFarland moved to the large bruise across the back of his right kidney and John didn't know what he was going to say if he was asked why that bruise looked like the indentation of belt buckles converging together.

Mr. McFarland wiped the last of the gel onto John's shoulders and capped the tube. Picking up the bandage he started to wind it gently around John's chest and back, firmly but not too tight, not needing to ask if it hurt because John wasn't flinching. When he was done, wrapped from the bottoms of his armpits to over his belly button, John lay back, not bothering to put on his shirt, bending his knees.

"So you got in a fight." Mr. McFarland traced one finger along the bandage; the touch sending small shivers to John's skin and nerves where he could feel it, where he imagined it was.

"Yeah." John kept his eyes glancing out the inch of window that showed, under the curtain.

"Happen a lot?"

"Once in a while."

"And the rest is just falling. Repeatedly. Hard."

"Yeah."

"John." It sounded like half a question and the rest was said in silence.

"Yeah." John looked back, really looked and what every emotion was brewing behind his face come to surface and stay there, didn't try to clear his eyes of whatever expression they held. For once. No smirking. No cocksure. Just him. Mr. McFarland stared at him, and John met his eyes, strongly. Slowly, he bent down and kissed him and unsure for a moment, John closed his eyes and kissed him back.

Mr. McFarland slid over him, so John was still on the outside and Mr. McFarland had his back to the window, cupping John to him, kissing, moving his hands gently against the bandage, John moving his hands under Mr. McFarland's black T Shirt, feeling a little coarse hair hit his hands but mainly smooth skin. Mr. McFarland's tongue was working John's cut and for a moment, John was afraid it'd open because it had taken almost half an hour to stop leaking blood initially. He traced Mr. McFarland's prominent collarbones and Mr. McFarland slid his hands into the top of John's jeans, and hesitated. John unbuckled his belt and his pants, opening his eyes for a moment to look back at Mr. McFarland. He raised his eyebrows slightly and gave a small smirk, which he let change into almost a smile. Mr. McFarland rolled onto his back and John followed, feeling hands inside his boxers, and traced the cut of Mr. McFarland's hips, then slid his hands up his skin.

Mr. McFarland sat up, leaned into him and John pulled off his black T-Shirt shirt then fell back onto his chest as Mr. McFarland lay back down, whimpering slightly, arching, groaning as Mr. McFarland's hands worked, keeping their mouths together. His pants, while sliding down, stayed loosely on his hips. He gulped and then let out, closing his eyes for a moment as Mr. McFarland gently bit his bottom lip. Mr. McFarland wiped his hands on his shirt, pulling it up from the ground and tossing it down again, still kissing John Not hesitating, John stayed on top and slowly worked his way down, kissing Mr. McFarland's skin.

John came up after Mr. McFarland finished, and slowly slid off of him, so he was being cupped again in his arms, his Adam's Apple hard in his throat. He lay back, letting his lips be kissed, his jeans still hanging loosely on his waist, his belt undone and lying across the boxers that showed through the V his open pants made, his bandage slightly askew, lying in Mr. McFarland's arms. Mr. McFarland was kissing John's forehead, only in his boxers, his pants shimmied to his ankles by John and kicked off. Gradually Mr. McFarland too, laid back on his side and they were quiet, John's arms half wrapped around the older man.

John exhaled through his nose and let himself fall asleep, Mr. McFarland's hands warm as they ran their tips over the bandage, over the seams of his belt loops. He woke up early in the morning curled, cupped in Mr. McFarland's embrace, his hair being tossed slightly by Mr. McFarland's breath. His jeans had dropped and were low around his hips, hanging onto the tops of his thighs by sheer will alone, it seemed. His chest still hurt. He waited a bit and then disentangled himself, pulling up and fastening his jeans and belt, heading down stairs barefooted.

When Mr. McFarland came downstairs wearing pants again, his hair tousled, John was sitting on the couch in the early morning dusk, his one leg folded across the cushion and the other bent, his elbow wrapped around his knee. He stared at the blank TV screen, holding a mug of coffee in his hands. "I pulled down the shades." John twisted his chin stud with his thumb and pointer finger, feeling the metal touch the edges of his hole.

"K." Mr. McFarland went to go and get himself a cup and John added to his back, "I put in some of that Irish liqueur stuff."

Mr. McFarland came back, sipping his own coffee. He didn't say anything about the cleared dishes but sat next to John. "John... I... Are you alright?"

"Yeah, just... I... you... didn't have on a condom. And that kind of screws me over if..."

"Oh. I'm clean John." John nodded. "Are you?" John nodded. "When was the last time you got checked?"

"I... I've only hooked up with anyone twice in the past two years and I've gotten physicals and I was clean."

"Did they check for STDs and things?"

"Yeah."

"This... this wasn't...."

"My first time? No. Not having oral sex. Had sex before too."

"Is it... a girl?" John shook his head. "A bloke?" John hesitated and shrugged. "Ellis?"

"What? No. Ellis? No. It was, I met this guy when I was in America. We, we started to get to be friends and we kind of hooked up but I don't think of it like that and... not like this. It was different; it was weird. Only kissed him but... I mean, I still think about him. A lot. And that was little more than three months ago."

"Oh." John drank more of his coffee. The liqueur left a slightly milky taste in his mouth after swallowing, but it felt good.

"When I was little... when my parents drank wine, I used to beg to be allowed to fill their finished glasses with water and drink 'em, cause you till got the remnants, that like fruit taste. Most of the time they said yes."

"John, does your dad know that- you've," Mr. McFarland faded out.

"Had sex with guys? Have camp predilections? No. He would kill me. He thinks homosexuality is wrong, and it makes you not a man and that's the worse thing anyone, or I, can be. Not a man." John drank more and stared at the couch, following the pattern with his eyes, the brown and yellow lines intersecting with the thin red ones, tracing the plaid pattern.

"Everything is about being a man. Real men ignore the pain John, real men don't... aren't faggots. Real men don't back down. Real men don't have piercings- they're for fucking fairies. Real men don't take pills, don't need to take pills. Real men can deal with what's wrong them. Real men don't complain, don't admit their pain, that they're weak. Real men don't draw, don't listen to music, don't play music. Real men work construction or with cars or plumbers or electricians..." he finished, mocking, his right hand spasming slightly in some bastard memory of the piano notes he used to play, before his father burned the books and beat his hands swollen with a belt.

Since then he had only let himself live through CDs, through examining other's work. Pages of his sketchbook were ripped out and burned and anything he wrote for school was almost just short of talent. With Bobby, with Bobby fuck the rules. Fuck the boundaries he had set up long ago that defined right and wrong; what was deserving of love and respect and what wasn't.

"Oh."

"Are you? Gay? Or do you just like watching boys shower and then having them go down on you?"

"You're not a boy John. Young man, maybe, but not a boy." John looked at him, under his messy bangs. "Yeah. I'm gay."

"Then... I mean, what's with groping kids on Halloween?" The expression hanging in Mr. McFarland's eyes changed slightly, from concern and a bit of regret to almost sorrow. He sighed.

"I don't know. I haven't, not this last year or the year before. Not after you- that one night- and even before only you... Everything was rumors... but you..." John nodded.

"It's about touch, isn't it?" Mr. McFarland met his eyes and nodded. "You... I didn't lose anything. I don't think anyone did, really." Mr. McFarland drank a little of his coffee, closing his eyes. "I should get going." Mr. McFarland nodded, worrying his lip between his teeth. John stood.

"Your bandage is loose."

"A little." Mr. McFarland leaned and put his mug on the floor, stood and fixed John's bandage, unwinding it and then rewinding it around his skin, the cloth thick and heavy with the gel still. "Thanks." Mr. McFarland nodded and walked John upstairs, watched him put on his polo shirt that was once Bobby's but fit him better because his shoulders weren't broad, then his shoes and socks. They walked to the back door, still not speaking. "I'll see you?"

"Yeah." John nodded, not really answering anything then leaned forward and kissed his lips, gently and quickly, mindful that he was standing in the doorway.

"Thank you." Mr. McFarland nodded.

"See you John." John nodded and walked into the rising sunlight, cutting through back yards to the kitchen window, climbing through and heading upstairs to his bedroom, to wait until it was time for school.


	17. Chapter 17

"_We should get g_oing," said John, tracing his fingers through the perspiration his bottle had left on the varnished wood. Bobby shrugged and started to draw a tic-tac-toe board in his own ring. John traced an X and won without ever using the center. "_Now you wanna go or do you want me to hand you your ass again_?"

Bobby decided that asking John for a rematch was probably a bad idea because he didn't get want go too obvious with the whole 'I wanna touch your hand because I like the warm fuzzy feelings in my knees' thing. "We can go. You done?"

"_Yeah. Are you? Cause I could probably order us another one_."

"_Nah, it's ok. Sure you don't me to pay you b_ack?"

"_Yeah. Was only a few beers. Not like a huge drain_." Bobby decided not to ask John where he gets money because he knows the answer would just be 'your mom'. And the thing is, Bobby doubts his mother would like John too much, at least not enough to give him money. There's something feral in the way he walks, and nothing very 'Home and Garden' about his attitude or mannerisms. They got up, John nodding to the bar tender on the way out.

"_You think we'll get back in time_?"

"_It's only like midnight or so. A couple miles. Should be back in an hour or so. No rush_."

"_Yeah_." They walked slowly, savoring the night and the freedom of breaking curfew, the rules and breaking them with someone else.

"_Look, if we get caught or something, just say it's my fault, that I dragged you along_."

"_But you didn't. You said we should go, but you didn't drag me. I wanted_-"

"_Just in case. Ok?"_

"_Fine_." Bobby counted sidewalk squares and didn't realize that they were passing a church until John crossed himself. "_What are you doing_?" The shock was more from seeing John do something so conformist than the actual action. He would have been equally as shocked if John had helped an old lady across a street or stepped out of the way for a Presidential procession.

John shrugged. "Old habits and all that crap."

"_You're Catholic_?" Bobby stopped on a crack and immediately filed the information to the back of his head. John refused to say anything about himself half the time, and Bobby had slowly realized John was worried that what he said would be used to send him home. If Bobby were better with words when he got anxious, he'd try to convince John he wouldn't sell him out. You don't do that to friends, not even friends who refuse to tell you their birthdays, not even friends who won't tell you their last name, not even friends you have dreams about.

"Used to be. Just think of my name dumb a-"John stopped and got a guilty, almost panicky look on his face.

"_John? I should have guessed you were Catholic because your name is John? You don't even go to freaking church_."

"_One_," John stopped looking scared for a moment to become morally defensive, "I_ have gone to church a couple of times. Saturday night masses when there's nothing else to do and two... My name, John is just what everyone calls me. Birth name is St. John_."

"_Singe-in'_?"

"_S-t-period John. My... I had an older brother who died of SIDS before I was born and my mom had a miscarriage and then she got pregnant with me so I guess she didn't want to take chances. Look Bobby, you can't_-"

"_I won't. Christ John, you're my friend_." John nodded and they start to walk again. "_Our Lady of Immaculate Conception_," read Bobby. "_Don't get all the 'our lady' and saint stuff_."

"_Lot of it has to do with the Virgin Mary. Some of it has to do with places where people have seen her- Our Lady of Lourdes refers to Lourdes France where Saint Bernadette saw her and dug this spring out that's supposed to have healing powers. Others, it's traditional; it refers to how she's known to be the, have, like... Like, Our Lady of Sorrows refers to her sorrow at losing her son and how she's considered the patron saint of mothers who have lost children._

_"Catholics believe you can ask the saints to pray for you since they've got more a direct line to God, and the Virgin Mary is considered the female face of God, like the easier to deal with version. The Our Lady is kinda like devotions almost, that people have attributed to her, like her being the patron saint of women, or how she's tied into death. Make sense?"_

_"A little. But why do they all have the same names_?"

"_Cause it refers to previously established churches and eventually the church in Rome. Like orders and things. And the Immaculate Conception bit, that refers to the belief that Mary was preserved from original sin since her conception_."

"_Then doesn't that mean that Jesus wasn't the only blameless person to every l_ive?" John shrugged and patted down his sweatshirt and pants pockets. "_You put them in the pocket on your right leg._"

"_Thanks_." John pulled out a crumbled pack of cigarettes and after offering one to Bobby, took one for himself. "_Guess when you bear God's love child you're given a get into heaven free card._"

Bobby laughed. "_Seems like a good deal. Better than a second date, considering he didn't even buy her a drink or anything_."

"You know, this is complete and total blasphemy." John was laughing, coughing out short bursts of smoke.

"_Guess we'll just add that to the whole underage drinking thing."_

_"Yeah, might as well throw it on. Bobby and John go to Hell for Blasphemy. Be a good movie, in the same vein as Bill and Ted or Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid or something_." They began to leave the city, the woods growing larger around them and the light of the street lamps leading the way, with small patches of light. John blossomed the spark from his cigarette into the size of a peach and held it in his hand as they walked, clenching his fist and letting the flame leak between his fingers, opening and letting it reform.

"_So why'd you leave?"_

_"What?"_

_"The church."_

_"Dunno. Didn't seem right in some ways. Like it depended a lot upon... I dunno, like, like God being silent and I realized I spent too much time alone to believe in something that advocated it, that thought it was a good thing. Cause I knew it wasn't. Was safer but_..." Bobby thought for a moment, not sure if John was bullshitting him or not because occasionally John spelled gullible B-O-B-B-Y.

"_But you said you still go to church sometimes."_

_"I do but it's more for the ritual, the assurance almost. I mean, I know it's stupid to think that God would be into talking to anyone mortal let alone me but still... He didn't have to talk, just... leave me with the feeling that he cared or was paying attention. And things the church taught, I didn't always believe."_

"_Like what?"_

_"Like homosexuality or abortion or marrying outside the Catholic faith or divorce being wrong. Stuff like that_." Bobby smiles. "_What?"_

_"Nothing,_" he says as he shakes his head.

"_You're Protestant right?"_

_"Yup. Non practicing really, until Christmas and Easter and the grandparents visit and everything."_

_"Huh._" John stubbed out the cigarette before slowly pulling the flame back into him with one deep breath, then letting it trickle out his nostrils to slide back along his hand.

"_Been practicing that huh?"_

_"Yeah, a little. Thought it'd be a good thing to put on the resume and all that."_

_"Does it burn?"_

_"What, when I absorb it? No not really_." Bobby motioned to John's hand, the one holding the fireball still. John stopped walking and held the fire in the air, concentrating. Not looking away Bobby felt him blindly grasping at Bobby's side and found his hand. Startled, Bobby frosted. "_Christ Bobby. Watch the hormones."_

_"Sorry, I didn't_-" John raised Bobby's hand into the air, cupping it. Bobby tried to ignore the hot feeling in his stomach, like the balloon that had blossomed in his gut four days ago when he had been looking at porn on the computer and had heard John's key in the lock. He had tried to close the window and it froze. He tried to pull up Hearts to at least cover most of the picture and it wouldn't open. The balloon had grown larger and larger until he was almost ready to explain to John why exactly he had been looking at a picture of two guys kissing in bed. It closed and Hearts popped up just as the door had opened. Bobby had almost frozen the monitor's screen.

"_Hold it there_." John pressed his left hand against Bobby's right and together they formed a small bowl. John slowly brought the fireball back down and it began to melt at the frost on their hands, the water dripping along their wrists, sliding down to their elbows and then onto the road. John tipped the fireball more and more into Bobby's hand and eventually it rested there, slightly above the skin, burning.

"_Holy crap_." John slid his hand on top of Bobby's and absorbed the fire back into him, his palm going white with the heat for a moment, the back of his hand hot against Bobby's skin. They stood in darkness.

"_Did it burn you?"_

_"No. No, I'm fine. How's your hand?"_

_"It'll cool down in a moment."_

_"Lemme see."_ Bobby took John's hand and blew on it, trying his hardest to control the temperature.

"_Nice_." Bobby let go of his hand and they stood for a moment not talking. "_Thanks_."

"_No prob."_

_"Guess we do make a decent team."_

_"Yeah_." They started to walk again, shuffling their sneakers against the ground, kicking through fallen leaves.

"_If you quote a Bob Dylan song or a Robert Frost poem I swear to god-"_

_"I don't know any."_

_"Good. Just making sure."_

_"Not a fan?"_

_"Dylan can't sing. If he wanted to write, then he should have stuck to poetry. And I don't like rhyming poetry."_

_"Listen to the little critic."_

_"Little? Could take you now, in case you weren't paying attention to the Tic-Tac-Toe game back there."_

_"Oh yeah?"_

_"Yeah_." John punched Bobby's shoulder lightly. Bobby hit him back and John had him in a headlock. "_Wanna try that again or are we going to behave_?" Bobby pulled himself free, bracing his hands against John's hips for a moment and hearing a slight crackle where his fingers froze the leather jacket John had bought in a New York Salvation Army for twenty bucks two months ago.

"_Maybe later I'll kick your ass. Show you who's really boss_." John laughed. "_What was your family like_?" John didn't say anything for a while and Bobby began to kick himself. "_I'm sorry, I-"_

_"Don't have a mom anymore. And last I saw, my dad drank too much too much of the time."_

_"Oh. I'm sorry-"_

_"Drop it Bobby."_

_"Dropped. Done. Buried. Kicked into the ocean. Put in a box-"_

_"Bobby. Breathe."_

_"Sorry._" They walked along and Bobby felt his hand brushing against John's. He was afraid to say anything, afraid that John would noticed the skin touching skin and would put his hands in his pockets or say, 'stop touching me faggot' or 'Christ Bobby, fuck off already' or something. It was the awkward walk of someone trying desperately not to touch anyone else, which meant he couldn't stop brushing up against him and stepping on the edges of his sneakers.

"_What do you think the worst way to die would be?"_

_"Alone_." John looked at him weird. "_I know that's not what you meant but I mean, at least when you're not alone it wouldn't be as bad. Like, with the Titanic and everything, they didn't die by themselves. I dunno, I just... What would be yours?"_

_"Drowning."_

_"Yeah? I thought fire..."_

_"Wouldn't be much of a problem for me. Drowning just makes me think of falling forever or something. Plus, you feel like your cells exploding and with fire you pass out pretty quick, I'd assume from the smoke or the pain or something."_

_'Yeah maybe you're right._" John hadn't pulled away. Then again, he hadn't leaned closer either. Since meeting John, Bobby had spent a lot of time wishing he was better at pretending to be drunker than he was, or better at just grabbing someone and kissing them. But no, he had to be the awkward touch type, the excuse me while I zone out and stare at your mouth and chin stud and the dip in your neck below your Adam's Apple type. The get a girlfriend you can't touch because you think it might distract you from your fascination with the same sex type.

Bobby thought about two weeks ago, when he fell asleep on John's bed while they watching Three Kings, after spending the day having a snowball fight in 70-degree weather. John had just lain back and fallen asleep next to him; Bobby had woken up to find their knees touching and had promptly dropped the temperature. John had woken up with a guilty, confused expression. Bobby had scrambled off and went to his bed, trying to hope that maybe John would think the whole thing was a dream. John hadn't said anything for a long time, stretching the silence into the next day. This, right now, was more than John had said to him in the hours leading up to the walk. "_Are you a virgin?"_

_"What?"_

John shrugged. "_Are you a virgin? I was just wondering; you don't have to answer I mean I get that was kind of rude."_

_"Yeah. Why? Are... you're not?"_

_"No."_

_"But Christ John, you're not exactly that much older than me, I mean I'm fourteen and you-"_

_"I'm fifteen_." Bobby couldn't think of anything to say. It was two streetlights and 49 steps before his brain could function and throw out some form of a sentence.

"_Oh."_

_"Don't-"_

_"I won't. I won't John, all right? Whatever you don't want to go back to, I won't send you there. Promise_." John held out his hand and Bobby grasped it. "_Is there where you pull out the switch and we have the blood oath? We could sing gang songs."_

_"Have my lighter."_

_"That's ok."_

_"Wouldn't hurt you_." They let go and went back to walking, their elbows and fingertips brushing. "_Gotta piss."_

_"Me two._" John checked the road and stepped off, crunching through the late night frost. Bobby hesitated and followed. They unzipped and didn't say anything. Bobby concentrated very hard on not freezing his pee and not looking a few feet to his left. Professor Xavier would have been amazed at his control. They walked back on to the road, hands in pockets. "_Hey- a shooting star."_

_"Supposed to make a wish on those right?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Did you_?" Bobby shrugged. What could he say? Yes John, I wished I had the balls to kiss you? No. That would not have ended well, if not in an A-Bomb explosion, ending the relationship. They walked in silence until Bobby realized John was humming.

"_John_?" The humming stopped. "Were you humming?"

"_If I was_?"

"_What was it_?"

"_A Death Cab song, supposed to be on their new record_."

"Sing it." John looked at him

"_My voice is shit."_

_"And I can't dance. Sing it anyway. Won't tell an_yone." Bobby gave his best smile. John laughed.

"_You look like one of those family pictures sent out for the holida_ys." Bobby punched his arm slightly. After a moment John sang softly, his voice tight at first and then loosening, "_I strain my eyes to see the difference between shooting stars and satellites from the passenger seat as you are driving me home. Do they collide? I ask and you smile. With my feet on the dash the world doesn't matter. When you feel embarrassed I'll be your pride. When you need directions I'll be the guide for all time_." He stopped.

"_Is that it?"_ John shrugged. "_Was good_."

"_Thanks. Better when they sing it."_

_"Never heard you sing before."_

_"Cause I don't."_

_"Oh_." They walked up the Mansion's lawn, feeling their feet slowly soak up the dew, turning and heading for the side with their window. "_You going to bed?"_

_"No, I don't think so. Thought maybe I'd see if there were any decent movies on. Want to join me? We can make popcorn or something._"

"_First got to get in_." John motioned to and began to climb the drainpipe and after a moment of beaming a quick 'thanks' to whatever saint was paying attention, Bobby climbed up after him, glancing up. John opened the window and offered down his hand to help Bobby inside. He took it, John pulled him in and Bobby smiled as their hands grasped and released.

"_What?"_

_"Nothing."_

_"What's with the dopey grin face then_?" Bobby shrugged.

"_Good mood_."

John nodded, muttered "_drunk_," and began to walk out of the room. Bobby followed, still smiling.


	18. Chapter 18

John twisted his chin labret. The plain stud twisting in his skin, the same condition as it had been in when Bobby gave it to him last year, on the anniversary of the first day of school because he had always refused to say his birthday. He had kept it in perfect condition, free of any nicks or scratches, even though putting it in was the first thing he had done when he came back to Australia. He hadn't removed it since, not even to shower. It was comforting, imagining the metal into Bobby's fingers, sometimes Bobby's tongue.

His pills had run out. Playing with the stud was something to do until he could relax completely and sleep as the air conditioner droned in the background.

His father came in and John jerked into a sitting position. "Stand up." John did, his feet caught in the sheets for a moment. His father stumbled over to the light and pulled the cord; John's eyes burned as they adjusted. He makes his mind blur.

John tried not to vomit, not to stare at the wet spot blooming from the inside on the crotch of his father's jeans. He wrapped his arms around himself. "Dad…what…" His father stared at him and John tried not to cry. He touched his father's shoulder, trying to wake him, to show him who is really there. "Dad- I-" His father punched and John shut up, trying to block his face.

"Are you a queer? You a fucking queer? Is that where you go at night? You go to fuck your friends? Eh? You go and fuck everyone in this town? Let them fuck you? Is that what you do? Is that where you go? You gonna try to fuck me now? You're a fucking faggot? Huh? You a queer? You think you're better? You think you'll leave?" His father's belt came off and made no noise as it cut through the air, not until it hit the wall, chipping pieces out of the paint, his fists making the frames clatter against the walls when he missed.

"No, Dad… I- no…"After his father leaves, John slid to the ground and tried not to cry. He tongued his labret slowly, pushing it out and with his fingers, back in. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. After a long time, John imagined he could feel his heart beat through his fingertips against the metal.

When he woke up the next morning, he was beyond sore, beyond stiff, and at that last place where one is completely and totally numb. He knew without checking his father wasn't there; it wasn't like there was a note on his wall or anything. Just knew. Getting up he decided not to breathe and that he never liked oxygen that much anyway. He began taking the books and binders out of his school bag and hid them in his closet. He grabbed clothing and began to roll them inside one another, shoving them as tightly as he can into the bag.

He managed to walk to the phone, leaning against the stair rail, letting it hold him upright. "Yes?"

"Is Ellis there?"

"Uh, sure, I think he hasn't left yet." There's a few seconds of the 'people who need to run to work and school and don't have quite enough time to get there' symphony (Part One) and then it was Ellis mumbling hello.

"Ellis? It's John. I-"

"Can't this wait till we get to school? Look I'll stop over and we'll walk together but I still got to eat breakfast and-"

"I can't go today. I'm sick. Can you do me a favor and grab a few notebooks from my locker?"

"Yeah mate, what do they look like?"

"Um, all hardcover. Spiral bound. No lines. Two are black, one's blue, and one's gray. Don't forget them ok?"

"Yeah sure Sexy. Drop 'm off on my way home. Feel better."

"Thanks." John hung up the phone and stared off into space for a bit. There was little to do now but wait.

(later)

John stirred on the couch, waking up and searching on the floor for the remote. Someone was knocking on the door; three short, hesitating a beat, then another two. Ellis. He turned off the TV and went to the door. He opened it quickly. "John? What-" Ellis wasn't alone; Angela, a girl from the French class he shared with Ellis, and another boy that John had seen around, George, Greg, something like that.

"Fuck!" He yanked Ellis in and slammed the door. "What the hell were you doing bringing them?"

"What happened to you!" Ellis reached up to touch John's face and he pushed him away.

"Did you bring the notebooks?"

"What happened to you? Have you seen your fucking face man?" John sighed and leaned slowly against the door.

"Keep your voice down. No. I haven't ok? Now did you bring it?" Ellis glared at him and started to open the door. John backed off, into the corner, wondering if he could manage a run, ok he was kidding himself- a brisk walk, if Greg and Angela came in.

"Is John ok?" Angela.

"Yeah. He's in the bathroom. He got a nosebleed right before we knocked and didn't get a chance to clean it up."

"Are you sure? That-" Shut up Greg.

"Why don't you guys, uh, go wait for me in my room? I'll be over in a couple minutes- I just wanna explain to John the French homework."

"Are you sure he's o-"

"He's fine. Just start the project without me." Ellis closed the door and leaned against it, staring at him. "They're leaving." John shrugged. "You wanna tell me what happened?"

"No, Mum, I don't." Ellis sighed and tossed his book bag onto the couch and pulled at John's arm to drag him into the bathroom.

"You got to wash your face. It's covered in blood." John shrugged again and sat on the toilet, staring at his reflection. "I think you need stitches." John didn't answer and Ellis left, ran up the stairs. John continued to stare at himself, rubbing his lighter between his palms. When he'd used the bathroom before he'd made sure not to look in the mirror, and washed his hands in the kitchen sink, the curtains pulled over the window. He probably should have before opening the door.

There was a cut to the side of his left eyebrow, his eyes were blackened and starting to swell, a scabbing gash on his cheek (John remembered the belt clasp striking there) and his lips were cut and cracked. His face was stiff with dried blood and still had makeup smeared on, making his lips into a rosebud colored slash, his eyelids purple, adding to the bruises. Ellis walked back in and wet the washcloth, squeezing it and slowly cleaning John's face. He closed his eye sand tried not to pull away, Ellis's other hand holding the back of his neck. "Done." He opened his eyes.

Ellis stared at him for a few moments and turned. He began to wash the blood out of the washcloth with cold water, the sink starting to stain red. "I'm leaving." Ellis turned again, dropping the cloth.

"Now?"

"I got a ticket for the 6:30 flight to New York. Told 'em there was a death in the family so they put me on the soonest."

"Oh."

"I need you to cover for me. It's a 24 hour flight and…'

"Tell him you're sleeping over." John nodded and Ellis finished washing out the cloth. They walked out of the bathroom, John leaning on him stiffly. "When are you leaving here?"

"Soon."

"I'm going with you."

"No, Ellis… You can't. Your parents-"

"Not to America dumb ass. To the airport."

"What about Greg and Angela?"

"I'll call and tell them you're really sick. That I'm going to stay until your dad gets home."

"And if they tell your mom?" Ellis shrugged.

"Need help packing?"

"No, did it today. You get the-"

'Yeah. They're in my bag." Ellis dug them out and handed them over. John slowly walked up the stairs to his room and slipped them into the knapsack. "Your room is really cold man." John shrugged. "That's it?"

"Ellis, the point of running away is not to bring six suitcases. Christ…."

"How are you gonna get to the airport?"

"Ask McFarland." Ellis nodded and sat on John's bed. He sat next to him, pushing the bag over.

"You're not gonna look up Spencer?"

"It's gonna be kinda hard considering I'm gonna be on the fucking run. So hmm let me think about it, no! Jesus Christ."

"Yeah…. You're so lucky you're not a practicing Catholic anymore."

"Well, it would mean your mum would feel better about me being around."

"No, she still thinks you're an underachiever and too much of a fighter and a bad influence. …I mean it's not like you know where he is."

"London."

"Wait, you actually know?'

"Yeah, looked him up online two years ago. He's working for a production company in London and trying to get enough money together to finance a film. He thinks he might get a backed by this independent company based in France. He's got this online journal I read sometimes."

"B- wa- but- why haven't you called him or anything?"

"Because." John rubbed his lighter between his hands.

"Because? What kind of fuck-wit reason is that? Maybe you could go stay with him! You wouldn't have to run then!"

"No!" John calmed down, feeling the lighter start to go hot in his hands. "I can't." he cut Ellis off. "He made his choice. He doesn't want me around. He could have written, called. He didn't. It's kind of evident he's moved on. And I can't blame him. "

"John-"

"No. I'm not."

"So where are you going?"

"Maybe back to Bobby."

"The boy at that school?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." They sat in silence for a while and Ellis slid his hand on top of John's, entwining his fingers. He said nothing and John twisted his wrist so their palms touched each other's. He put his lighter into his pocket, feeling the metal through the thin fabric of his cargos. "Look, I'm sorry for…"

"For what?"

"Maybe I could've done something… told my parents so you wouldn't…"

"If you had told your parents, I never would have spoken to you again."

"Yeah, but, there wouldn't be this," Ellis motioned to John's face. John shrugged and squeezed their conjoined fist. Ellis squeezed back. "How are your ribs and everything?"

"Couple hurt really bad, maybe they're cracked but I don't exactly have time to go to the doctor. I'll see when I get out there."

After a time, Ellis spoke. "Don't hate me for this, but can I please give you money?"

"No!"

"I just want to make sure you'll be ok!"

"I'll be fine. Christ, I don't need handouts." John hesitated. "Sorry. I know… I just…"

"It's alright."

"Look I'll write, let you guys know I'm ok."

"Good." They sat there and watched the numbers on John's clock change.

"I should call my dad."

"I should call Greg and Angela." They sat there a little longer and John made himself get up, his hand slowly untwisting from Ellis's. He walked slowly to the phone, Ellis following.


	19. Chapter 18 and a half

"Hi, may I speak to Evan Allerdyce? It's his kid." John waited and his father came on the line.

"John?"

"I'm staying over Ellis's tonight. Maybe for the weekend." His father didn't say anything for a moment and John was about to make sure they hadn't been cut off.

But his father said "fine," and hung up.

John stared at the phone for a minute. "Last night, he said… I think he's caught on that I'm queer."

"Yeah? Is that why…" Ellis touched John's cheek. He shook his head.

"Dunno. But he knows about me leaving at night. Not about the showering or where I go, went but… I think he thinks you and I are having sex or dating or something."

"Oh."

"Thought I'd warn you."

"Oh. Thanks." John handed him the phone and started to walk back to his room. Ellis grabbed his shoulder and held him there. He stayed, and Ellis's hand stayed on his shoulder, kneading it gently. "Hey Greg? Yeah, it's Ellis. Look, John's kinda puking all over the place and I don't want to leave him so- yeah he's gonna be fine. I think he just has like the stomach flu or something. 24 hour virus, yeah probably. But if you and Angela want to use my room to work on the project or take off or whatever, we can get together later this weekend. Ok? Sorry, I just feel bad leaving him. What? No, you don't have to tell my mom. I'll be home before dinner so… yeah. Talk to you later. Bye."

"Nice." Ellis shrugged.

"Doubt he'll tell my mom. Buys us time." He looked at the clock. "Got like an hour or so before you'll need to leave." John nodded and they stood there for a moment. Ellis touched his chin again and holding it in place, kissed him. John waited a beat and then pulled away. "I'm sorry, I-"

"Not here. Not…" John motioned to his parent's room. "Not…"

"Right." They walked back to John's room, Ellis keeping his hand on the small of his back, supporting him as he walked slowly. They stood in the center of the room, no longer sure what to say or do. Both cleared their throats and continued to stare at the floor.

"How was it?"

"What?"

"Kissing a boy."

Ellis shrugged. "Good. I dunno if it was cause it was you or whatever but it was good." John nodded. Ellis met his eyes again. Staring for a moment, he took his hand and John let him. "You're gonna be ok?"

"Yeah. Fine." Ellis nodded.

"What are you bringing?"

"Well, my dad didn't like touch my shit or anything when I left the first time so I guess if I leave most of it again, I can come back and pick it up when I'm 18."

"And if it looks like he'll do anything to it, Rachel, Marc and I will break in and rescue it all. Maybe not those crappy foreign films though, only the movies where you get what the people are saying." John smiled.

"Thanks. Break out the super powers for me?" Ellis smiled and shrugged. "So I'm bringing some clothes, CD wallet, CD player… a picture of you all, another of my mom, dad, Spencer. Pretty much like last time. Sketchpads."

"The notebooks right?"

"Yeah."

"Thought so."

'You didn't say anything to Marc or Rachel-"

"No. But I'm gonna call them tonight."

"Thanks." Ellis nodded. "I'm sorry I can't stay it's just…"

"John, if he keeps on like this, he's gonna kill you. You have to leave and it sucks but…" Ellis shrugged. John nodded. Ellis leaned in and kissed him again. John kissed back with his eyes closed, waited. He took Ellis's hand and placed it on the small of his back and Ellis put his arms around him. After a moment, he detached from the kiss, and leaned against him gingerly. Feeling his arms tighten around him, holding him.

"thank you."

"'S ok. Be ok." Ellis rubbed his back gently, mindful of older bruises or pressing John's chest into his. They stood there for a long while, finally breaking apart when John opened his eyes and looked at the clock.

"Should get to McFarland's."

"How do you know he'll be there?"

"He writes through the night, sleeps in the mornings, then gets up around noon and writes again. Right about now, he's probably having lunch or on a writing kick. He doesn't leave his house too much. Weekends, or mid day, but whenever I showed up he was there. I mean, Scotty was over once so I left before he saw me but…" Ellis nodded and let go. "You mind helping me throw on a sweatshirt? It's probably better... with day light and everything but…"

"Yeah no problem." Slowly Ellis helped him and picked up his bag for him. "I'll carry it."

"But-"

"I'll do it." John shrugged and they went out the back door, John locking it behind him and handing the key to Ellis.

"In case of something… just check in on him ok? If you think something's wrong?"

"Yeah."

Knocking wasn't the hard part. Standing on the doorway, knowing he was visible, knowing he would have to explain, that was worse. "John? Holy crap what happened to you! Come inside. You too Ellis." They did, Ellis closing the door behind him. John leaned against the wall. Mr. McFarland touched his cheekbone gently. "You need to see a doctor."

"I need a favor."

"Who did this to you? Ellis you-"

"No, I would never!" Mr. McFarland nodded and turned his attention back to John, gently rubbing his cheek with the knuckles of his left hand, the other hand holding onto John's shoulder. In case he fell, he guessed.

"What happened?"

"My dad beat the shit out of me. I need to leave. I have a ticket waiting for me at the airport but I was wondering… could you drive?"

"Yeah, of course. Where are you going?" John shrugged.

"Ticket says New York."

"Do you need money?"

"No." Mr. McFarland had him by the chin, was slowly turning his head from side to side, up and down, to get a better look at him. "Ellis is gonna come too, to the airport."

"OK. Your father did this?" John nodded and met his eyes. "He does this a lot, doesn't he? You should report this, John you have to."

"I don't have any place to go."

"We can you find a place without you needing to run away."

"No. I don't, I don't think I could ever just testify or whatever… I couldn't do that, not to his face."

"John it's not betrayal. He stopped deserving any of your confidence or respect the minute he hit you. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I can't. I can't do that to him. You don't… I feel… he's lonely. He misses my mom and he doesn't know how to deal, how to get her back because she doesn't want to come back, not to either of us. And that I'm leaving, just running like this- I couldn't- I don't have the balls to tell him to his face. I'd stay. I know I would.

And he's always slapped me around. Always drank too much. Who'd believe me? I'm a bad kid."

"That's shit John."

"It's true- I'm always getting into fights, mouthing off to teachers, everyone."

"John no one deserves to have the crap kicked out of them once, let alone their whole life."

"No, it's… When I was younger, he'd slap me yeah, if he got really drunk or angry but it wasn't until after Spencer left, after my mom took off that it got bad. I can't stay. I can't. Look, either take me to the airport or I'll walk or something."

"You're not walking to the airport."

"Then are you driving?" Mr. McFarland sighed, his thumb resting on the center of John's bottom lip and eyes meeting John's, who tried to make his into the international symbol for 'please, for the love of God, please'. He nodded. "We have to go now. The flight leaves in a little over an hour and with tickets and everything, we gotta go."

"I got his bag," Ellis said quietly, speaking for the first time.

"Give me a moment, ok? Just wait here. Are either of you hungry?" They shook their hands. "You sure? John it's a long flight."

"I'm fine."

"Ellis?"

"I'm ok." Mr. McFarland nodded and jogged up the stairs to his room.

"He seems nice."

"He is."

"You two… you two never um…" John shot Ellis a Look. "Oh. OK." They waited and Ellis wrapped his hand around the back of John's neck, slowly moving his thumb up and down the bumps of his vertebrae. Mr. McFarland came back down, clutching the handles of a brown paper bag.

"Ready?" They nodded and followed him to the car.

The lady at the ticket counter sat up straight when John stepped to the counter. "Are you ok? Can I help you?"

"St. John Allerdyce. I called in a ticket to New York."

She typed quickly for a moment, not looking at the keyboard but at his cheek, the swelling of his eyes. It made a beeping noise and she looked down. "Bereavement. To New York. Departure at 6:30. Is that right?" He nodded. "That'll be . Cash? Credit card?"

"What? That's-"

"We only had a spot open in first class. Sorry." Mr. McFarland stepped up as John started to take out his wallet.

"I got it."

"No, I told you-"

"I got it John. Don't take his money ok?" He addressed the woman, and with a mystified expression she nodded. He handed over a credit card. "Consider it a good bye gift."

"No, you've done enough, you-"

"Don't finish that sentence. I'm buying your ticket." Defeated John sighed.

"Fine. Thank you." Mr. McFarland nodded, and rubbed his shoulder gently.

"Here you go." She handed over his boarding pass. "Any luggage?"

"Just a carry on, thanks."

She hesitated. "Are you sure you're ok? The cut on your cheek looks real bad." He touched it gently and cursed. He could feel it starting to bleed.

"Yeah fine." He paused. "Car crash."

"Oh. Oh, God, I'm so sorry."

'It's ok. Thanks.'

"Have a nice flight.' He nodded and left. Mr. McFarland and Ellis pulled him into a bathroom and over to the sinks. Ellis wet a paper towel and pressed the tip against the cut and Mr. McFarland reached into his bag, pulling out medical tape.

"Thought you might need this." He waited till the cut stopped and Ellis had dried it and gently taped the sides together.

"You know, I can take care of myself."

"Sure Sexy. That's what got the crap kicked out of you in primary school. You and your mouth have always done an excellent job in taking care of yourself," said Ellis. Mr. McFarland ripped off another piece and tore it in half, taping the cut by his eye together.

"You should consider stitches."

"I'll get 'em when I get there."

"Promise?" Ellis stuck out his hand and John sighed.

"Yeah." They shook and walked back out, looking for the terminal. After security, they still had ten minutes before John was to board. They sat in silence on the uncomfortable chairs. "You do realize you bought me a first class ticket?"

"Like I said, a gift."

"Just checking you're mentally stable and everything. I mean Ellis has to drive back with you."

"Here," Mr. McFarland handed over the bag.

"What's this?"

"Just take it." John sighed and opened the bag. "Keep the medical tape and the gauze, you'll need it. The other is for you to keep." John pulled out a book- _The Little Prince_.

"Antoine de Saint-Exupery?"

"He's good. And it's not just a book for kids, ok?" John flipped it open and noticed the inside cover was signed. **_alaster mcfarland_**.

"This is yours."

"A close friend gave it to me a long time ago and I'm gifting it to you." He took the book from John's hands for a moment and pulled out a pen. "Here." He wrote and tapped the page. "My phone number. Please, please, please, please. Call me if you need anything or if you're in trouble. I don't care when or how bad it is. Just please call me if you need help."

"I will. Thanks." He took the book and slid it into his bag. "Thank you."

"I would have grabbed something but I figured you didn't want your shit back…" Ellis pulled a little on his Smoking Popes shirt. John smiled.

"It's ok, really-"

"Wait!' Ellis ran into a gift shop. He came back out holding a small brown paper bag. "Here." John pulled out a lighter with an Australian flag engraved upon it. As he stared at it, Ellis pulled off his shirt and tossed it into his lap. "Take it."

He laughed. "Thanks." He wound the shirt around and around the lighter and slipped it into his bag.

"Take good care of yourself, you bastard."

"Same to you." The boarding call was made and they stood, silent for a long minute. "Well I guess…. Tell Marc and Rachel I'm sorry I couldn't say goodbye in person." Ellis nodded. "Take care of yourself, and them." Ellis nodded again and smiled.

"You're the one running. If you ever need any help thinking up fake alias, just call me and let me know. Good at thinking up dirty ones. Anita Fuck and all that." John laughed.

"Take care of yourself, ok?" said Mr. McFarland. He nodded. "And John, art and music make you no less of a man than anyone else. The only time you could be considered that is if you don't do something you love because of someone else and their opinion. OK?"

"Yeah." They walked him to the desk, where the first class passengers were beginning to board. Hesitating before getting online, John faced the other two. "Bye," he said, and stepped to Mr. McFarland and embraced him, kissing him on the cheek quickly. His shoulders were held and Mr. McFarland looked at him.

"I meant what I said. Call me if you need help or just someone to talk to."

"I know. I will." Mr. McFarland kissed his cheek and hugged him quickly, then let go. John looked at Ellis and smiled. "C'mere you bastard." Ellis hugged him, long although mindful of his chest.

"Take care of yourself or so help me God I'll have to kick your ass into shape."

"Oh you're gonna kick my ass? Since when did you become able to kick my ass?"

"Since always."

"Yeah sure. You get knocked in the head recently?"

"Whatever Sexy." John laughed. "I mean it, take care of yourself. This Bobby better be worth you."

John nodded. "He is."

"Me, Marc, Rachel, always be there if you need us."

"I know." They hugged again, and John kissed Ellis, crushing their lips together for a moment. "So how is it kissing a boy?" Ellis laughed and hugged him, holding him for a moment.

"Better if the boy wasn't such an asshole." John hit him lightly and turned, walking to desk, handing in his ticket. After stepping through the barrier, he turned, tonguing his labret. Mr. McFarland watched and Ellis blew a kiss, rubbing his skin to ward off goose bumps from the overactive air conditioning. John gave him the middle finger and walked onto the plane.

(later)

John woke up, an idea to draw itching in his head. Digging through his bag he pulled out the newest sketchpad and turned to an empty page. Finding a watercolor pencil, he began to sketch himself, flying over the Pacific. He wrote in caption, _You will probably ask yourself why I bothered to write this, the story of my father and in turn, myself. _He nodded in acknowledgment of memory and continued to draw, ignoring everything else around him, drawing who his father was.


End file.
